


Into the Fire

by 99bottlestogo (darkside213)



Series: Pendragon Life [4]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-10
Updated: 2017-01-10
Packaged: 2018-09-16 15:36:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 29
Words: 159,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9278267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkside213/pseuds/99bottlestogo
Summary: Sequel to We're All In. Jamie Pendragon has made it through her first three years of Hogwarts along with her brother Luka. Their fourth year is upon them and change is in the air, with the Quidditch World Cup, dragons, mermaids, the Yule Ball, and a dangerous tournament. Follow Jamie as she navigates the new waters at Hogwarts filled with Beauxbatons girls, and Durmstrang boys.





	1. Summer of Explosions

**Author's Note:**

> Everything you recognize is J.K. Rowling's. Except Jamie, Luka, and Ariana.

Now that I think back on it, my world truly changed at the start of my fourth year at Hogwarts. The times were changing, and life was beginning to get darker everyday. I should have expected that the year would be filled with danger and that blood would be spilt. For where there is fire… danger is always close at hand.

 

Chapter 1- Summer of Explosions

 

BOOOOOOOM! An explosion rocks the Burrow from the top down. Smoke billows out from underneath a door that has a sign hanging on it ‘CAUTION: EXPLOSIONS MAY OCCUR’. Through a coughing fit, I push up the door allowing more smoke to plume out, and tumble out onto the floor of the landing.

Two more hacking and wheezing voices come from behind me as a pair of redheaded twins fall to the ground practically on top of me. “Okay… so maybe next time we reconfigure the amount of powder before we light the fuse.” George coughs. Fred swats at the smoke in front of his face.

“Good idea.” Fred responds.

“Or maybe we can forgo the addition of the stink powder until the device has actually been tested.” I sputter rubbing my hands over my running eyes. The twins squint through the haze at each other then at me.

“Even better.” They wheeze together. Before we can say anything else though, the sound of a door slamming sounds throughout the house.

“FRED, GEORGE, JAMIE!” The bellow of Mrs. Weasley makes our hearts run cold. We are so in for it now.

“Heh, heh, run!” Fred cries, pulling George and me up by our shirts, as we plow back into the smokey room, and to their window. George pounds on a hidden button, and an escape ladder springs into action unfurling out the window and to the ground safely below.

“Ladies first!” They cry hoisting me up and over the windowsill. I grab hold of the rungs and start my quick descent down. Once I’m a few rungs down Fred joins me, shortly followed by George.

“This is a thing of beauty Jamie! We designed this after the last time one of our harmless experiments went off by accident, and Mum was attempting to murder us!” George cries. I hit the ground, and glance around nervously expecting to see an angry saber toothed version of Mrs. Weasley at any moment.

The twins hit the ground beside me, and we’re off. We make it to the trees and take cover. “That was a close one.” I say wiping the sweat off my brow, and hacking up the last of the smoke still caught in my lungs.

“I’ll say, Mum is getting a better responding time to our mishaps.” Fred comments looking down at his soot stained watch, and rubbing it clean.

“Indeed, methinks that we have a little traitorous spy in our midst.” George agrees stroking his sooty chin, streaking it so that it looks like he has a beard.

“I just think that she has rather good hearing.” I say shaking my head attempting to get the ringing out of my ears.

“A spy it is.” Fred says assuredly.

“Well it’s not me!” A small voice declares from above. We ship out heads upwards and see a redheaded girl up a tree.

“Ginny!” I exclaim with a grin on my face. The girl beams at me, and drops down next to me. “I thought that commotion was the three of you.” She says but then her nose scrunches up in distaste. “Jamie you’re not coming back into our room until you take a shower. I’m not contaminating the air with you smelling like Fred and George’s sock drawer!” Ginny exclaims holding her hand to her nose.

“That’s what this is?” I say screwing my nose up at the stink.

“Oi! I’ll have you two ladies know that our sock drawer is nothing to turn your nose up at!” George exclaims indignantly.

“Yeah what you’re experiencing is our test batch for our next generation Stink bombs!” Fred adds. I make a face.

“The name is still under construction.” George adds hastily taking our disgusted looks as a bad sign.

“Mum is going to kill you three.” Ginny says definitively shaking her head at us.

“A little degnoming never hurt anyone.” I say shrugging my shoulders.

“Besides Mum will never punish us that badly. Ever since Luka and Jamie have come to live with us, if either of them get into trouble, she just sputters a little and gives us all lighter punishments!” Fred grins satisfied.

Ginny rolls her eyes at the twins, and gives me a ‘can you believe those two’ look. Suddenly the bushes in front of us start shaking, and a twig snaps. The four of us freeze, and look at the bushes warily like there’s a dementor that’s going to jump out at us.

I finger the wand in the side pocket of my shorts. My heart starts beating faster. The bushes part, and we draw a collective breath. Ron’s confused and annoyed face pokes out from it.

“What’s going here? I thought that you guys were going to include me from now on!” Ron cries upset. He comes out of the bushes, and my brother appears a second later.

“The house smells like a mixture of troll boogers and dragon dung.” Luka groans, curling his lip up at the smell coming off of the twins and me.

“Aptly put my good Pendragon.” George grins at my twin.

“Mrs. Weasley is off her rocker. She’s furious that the whole house smells like that. The three of you are in for it to be sure.” Luka continues as if George hadn’t just interrupted him in the first place.

“What are we going to do now? Dinner is going to be soon and I’m not missing the Shepard’s Pie that Mum promised tonight!” Ron cries with an air of despair about him.

“You and you’re stomach! That’s the only thing that you ever care about isn’t it!” Ginny says glaring at her brother.

“Come on guys this shouldn’t be tearing us apart. We need to think before we’re caught.” I tell them trying to get everyone to work together.

“At this rate she’s going to take away the opportunity for us to go and see the Quidditch World Cup at this rate!” Luka cries having a mini breakdown even though he’s the one who hadn’t even done anything wrong. The thought sobered everyone up quickly though.

“She— she wouldn’t do that would she?” Ron asks worriedly. I bite my lip unsure of exactly what Mrs. Weasley would do. Its common knowledge to everyone that Mrs. Weasley is in charge of the discipline of the household not Mr. Weasley. He’s the one who will talk with you for hours on end about all the fun stuff going on, and what you’re interested in.

I’m speaking for both my brother and I that this transition has been hard. We’ve been living with the Weasley for a little over a month now, and it’s hard to find a balance between guest and family member. Even though the Weasleys are our guardians, that doesn’t make them anything more to us.

Sure we live in their house, eat their food, do their chores, and blow up stink bombs with their children but that doesn’t make us their kids. I can tell that its not only awkward for Luka and I but for Mr. and Mrs. Weasley as well. If there’s one thing that I hate by now it’s being a burden to anyone.

The bushes shake again, but before we can do anything a red faced Mrs. Weasley bursts forth. Oh boy, we’re in for it this time. “THE THIRD TIME THIS WEEK! I CAN LIVE WITH THE EXPLOSIONS, BUT THE SMELL! YOU LOT ARE REALLY PUSHING YOUR LUCK!” She bellows. The six of us cringe back and away from her.

Wow, I don’t know how Fred and George haven’t wound up dead long before now. “Oh come on Mum, you and Dad can do magic and take the smell right out of the house! Besides it was harmless! Nothing caught on fire this time!” Fred says. I wince. That is totally not the right thing to say.

“You listen here mister! You and your brother are lucky that your father has already paid for those tickets, for if not you would be sitting here at home with me going through the laundry and scrubbing the dishes!” Mrs. Weasley snaps. Fred and George pale and shrink back from their mother.

The height difference between the two gangly boys and their mother would be hilariously entertaining if it weren’t for the fear that I still feel. Mrs. Weasley rounds on me as well. “I expect you to be the one with common sense out of the two of them Jamie. Now come on everyone! Fred, George, Jamie, its straight to the showers with you! No need to stench the place up again. As for the rest of you its time to start cleaning!” She declares marching back into the bushes, with us following along behind her.

“Oh Mum but why?” Ron whines upset at the fact that he’s going to have to clean. I know for a fact that cleaning is not one of Ron’s strong suits.

“Because Ronald we are picking up Harry tomorrow, and Hermione will be arriving here tomorrow night. I am not going to leave a bad impression on our guests by how messy we leave our home!” She declares. We filter into the house, and we three offenders climb the stairs towards the bathrooms. Luckily, the boys share two bathrooms, and Ginny and I share another.

As we pass Percy’s landing the angered man sticks his head out of his door. “You three! I can still smell that foul odor in here! I’m warning you, I have important business to attend to in the Department of International Magical Cooperation! I cannot be showing up for work smelling like the inside of a dungeon!” Percy snaps, his glasses glinting madly. I hold my hands up as we pass him, but I can’t help but giggle at his misfortune after that.

I grab a change of clothes, and make my way to the bathroom. Once in the shower I allow myself to luxuriate in the hot water. This is my life now. This time last year Luka, and I were stuck in our small house in a different countryside with only each other for company, and every so often the illustrious Ariana Dumbledore.

Now we live in a large crowded home surrounded by redheaded Weasleys. My brother shares a room with my best friend Ron, and I room with Ron’s younger sister Ginny who also happens to be a friend. Luka and I now have two adults who are consistently present in our lives unlike Kingsley who was always between assignments that would take him far away from us for long periods of time.

To say that this summer has been different is an understatement. So far though, I like it. My days are mostly filled with prank designing and pulling, Quidditch playing, and boy upstaging with my favorite cohort Ginny. Luka has even come out of his stick in the mud shell a fair bit joining us in our games. Most nights are lively for we play Wizard’s Chess, Exploding Snap, and Gobstones.

When it is supposedly time for everyone to go to bed, Ginny and I stay up late at night talking about anything and everything. We’re not as close and Hermione and I are yet, but I have a feeling that if things keep going the way that they are then she will practically feel like a sister, like what Hermione is.

I heave a sigh, and take in the vanilla smelling air once more, before shutting the water off, and stepping out of the shower. I towel off, and get dressed quickly, so I can run the brush through my hair, and put it up into the ponytail. I know that Mrs. Weasley will want the three of us cleaning as well. I hop the last three stairs to the ground floor to see Luka and Ginny cleaning the living room, small dust clouds pluming in their wake.

Ginny looks up to see me. “Ron’s cleaning his side of his room. Mum said that Harry is going to have to have somewhere to sleep in there and the pile of clothes on the floor was not going to be that comfortable of a place.” Ginny giggles. I chuckle and shake my head at that mental image. My brother grits his teeth and shakes his head as well.

“I can’t believe what a slob he is! Its bad enough listening to that blasted ghoul every night.” Luka grumbles. Luka and Ron have been fighting over the state of their shared bright orange room from the moment that we had arrived. It seemed to be a sticking point from each boy; neither would give any leeway on how clean the room should be.

Luckily Ginny and I have similar cleanliness. “Fred and George are cleaning up outside, and Mum said that you should help in here.” Ginny finishes. I nod my head, and catch the rag that my brother throws at my head. George passes by the open window that I’m cleaning.

“Leave it to Percy the Perfect to get out of cleaning. He still lives here, but since he’s doing important work for his oh so serious job, he get’s off scot-free! The woman is bonkers I tell you.” He grouches. I snicker at his unhappiness.

“At least his room still smells.” I say sympathetically. George brightens up considerably after that.

An hour and a half later dinner is ready and the cleaning is as good as it will get for the night. Granted it’s not nearly up to Mrs. Weasley’s standard of perfection. Everyone squeezes in around the extended family table waiting for Mr. Weasley to join us. He was called away on an emergency earlier today even though we was supposed to have off.

The kitchen door swings open and Mr. Weasley steps in mopping his brow from the late summer humidity that we’re experiencing. At almost the exact same moment Percy descends the stairs. “Sorry Molly you won’t believe what happened…” Mr. Weasley starts the same time as Percy.

“Sorry Mother but I was terribly busy writing a letter to a colleague of mine in France.”

Whatever their excuses are it doesn’t matter to the rest of us, for it finally means that we can eat, which I’m delighted by. Dinner is a jovial affair with Mrs. Weasley telling Mr. Weasley about what we had been up to ‘meaning the stink bomb explosion’.

“Well I don’t say! Did it work guys?” Mr. Weasley exclaims, much to the horror of his wife.

“Rewarding them for this sort of behavior Arthur?” She asks him dangerously. That is our cue to stuff as many rolls in our faces and pockets as we can, for we do not need to see poor Mr. Weasley be chewed out tonight.

Later on that night, Ginny and I are hanging out in our room. We’re expected to be asleep by now, but that never happens. Since our room is smaller then most of the others our beds are bunked one on top of the other. Ginny resides in the bottom bunk and I have the top one.

Our window is open letting in the cool summer’s night breeze into the room. I feel a thud on my back, and I know that Ginny has thrown one of her stuffed animals that she still has against my mattress. It has become a game to her. She tries to get the animal as high as she can without actually hitting my bed. Another thud comes. Tonight must be one of her off nights.

“Jamie?” Ginny asks me suddenly. I turn and lean over my bed sticking my head over the side so that I can see her even if she’s upside down.

“Ginny?” I question right back at her. She keeps her gaze focused on the stuffed unicorn toy.

“Do you find it strange that You-Know-Who didn’t do anything last year?” Ginny asks finally. I startle sliding off my bed, and falling to the ground. I groan, and clamber into a sitting position next to her bed. I’m used to falling out of that thing by now on my feet, but I truly wasn’t expecting that sort of question.

“What makes you ask that Gin?” I ask her questioningly. Ginny bites her lip, and I smile softly realizing that she’s getting that habit from me.

“Well… its just that, he went after the stone your first year, then he— he came after you and Harry in my first year through me, but last year… he did nothing.” Ginny explains worrying her lower lip some more. I bite mine as well. I had noticed that fact as well, but Ginny doesn’t know anything about Sirius, Pettigrew, and Lupin from last year either.

“I don’t know Ginny. Maybe he’s decided to pack up shop and take his nastiness elsewhere.” I tell her knowing that I’m lying even while saying it. Voldemort will never stop coming. He won’t rest until he’s back, and Harry is dead in the ground, which will mean that I am as well, for there will be no way that he gets to my friend before going through me first.

“I don’t think that’s the case Jamie.” Ginny tells me softly. I smile at her sadly, and squeeze her arm.

“Let’s not worry about it tonight. Tomorrow Harry and Hermione will be here as well, and then the real fun can start, for we’ll all be going to the Championship, and that’s just wicked.” I grin. Ginny grins back at me and nods her head.

“All right then. We better get some more sleep for if I know Mum she’ll have us up early cleaning again, for she’s afraid that Harry will not like the house.” She says.

I shake my head at that. “Mrs. Weasley should know by now. Harry Potter loves the Burrow and everyone inside it.” I declare, getting up and climbing my ladder back up to my bed.

“Ha! That’s right. Good night Jamie, thanks for that.” Ginny tells me. I hear her roll over below me.

“No problem happy to help. Sleep tight.” I reply absently, staring out the window at the stars in the sky.

If only my nights were as good as my days, then my life would be great. I close my eyes and swallow hard. Please let it not happen again tonight.


	2. Procuring Potter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything you recognize is J.K. Rowling's. Except Jamie, Luka, and Ariana.

Chapter 2- Procuring Potter

 

The peace of the Burrow early next morning is shattered by the angry yell of one Percy Weasley. “YOU NITWITS! WHEN I GET MY HANDS ON YOU, EVEN THE MINISTER OF MAGIC WON’T BE ABLE TO SAVE YOU!” With a groan I roll over, and bring my pillow down over my head.

It’s too early to be dealing with this ruckus today, especially with the remnants of last night’s nightmare still playing behind my eyelids. “Calm down Percy!” The voice of Mr. Weasley is heard outside of our landing. Ginny moans and kicks the bedpost, shaking our bed.

“Make it stop.” She whines.

“I WILL NOT! DO YOU UNDERSTAND THE MAGNITUDE OF WHAT THEY’VE DONE? THESE PAPERS ARE OF THE UTMOST IMPORTANCE IN A TREATY THAT MY OFFICE HAS BEEN WORKING ON FOR WEEKS!” He bellows.

With a scowl I sit up from my bed and allow my pillow to flop back onto my mattress. Ginny is now whimpering at he noise. Usually the girl is an early riser during school, but I guess that the same can’t be said for the summer. I swing my legs over the side, and with a push, I’m on the ground. I rub at my eyes blearily, and make my way for the door.

“Now Percy I’m sure that it was just an accident. Fred, and George would never do anything to purposefully harm your work.” Mr. Weasley says again. I open the door to my room, and look out into the hall to see Mr. Weasley holding back a livid Percy who has a stack of bright pink papers clutched in his hand.

“Oh you don’t know what they’re like Father! They will do literally anything to bother me!” Percy declares. With that Percy puts his nose in the air and spins around to vanish straight back into his room. Mr. Weasley runs a hand over his face and sighs.

“What am I going to do with those boys?” He sighs. I shift my weight onto a creaky floorboard, and his face shoots up to see me. A smile comes to it.

“Jamie! Why are you up so early my girl? I daresay that the rest of the house besides Molly dear is still fast asleep!” He exclaims coming over to me.

“I heard shouting… did the twins do anything to Percy’s paper? The last thing we did was explode the bomb.” I say softly trying to disturb Ginny in her sleep.

Mr. Weasley grins and chuckles. “I suspect that they might have done some covert pranking last night, but never fear, I hardly think we’ll find enough evidence in which to punish them.”

I bite my lip and nod my head in response. “Are you all right there Jamie?” Mr. Weasley asks me placing his hand on my shoulder. I startle slightly and look up into his concerned blue eyes.

“I’m fine, just didn’t sleep all that well last night is all.” I tell him with a shaky smile hoping that he will believe my lie. He gives me a long look, but unlike his wife he smiles back at me as well, and doesn’t push the subject.

“Well then, you best be moving along then if you want first crack at the shower. Early start today I expect, Molly will be rousing the troops for food and cleaning any moment I suspect.” He tells me patting my shoulder as he descends the stairs. I grimace at having to lie to the man. Both Weasley parents have been nothing but great to my brother and me, but there are some things that not even adults should know. 

* * *

 

Breakfast that morning is fast and chaotic. Mrs. Weasley is officially in panic mode, and the rest of us are suffering for it. From my set in between Ginny and George I’m able to question the twins about the papers of Percy’s.

“Oh that? Well it turns out that when left alone in aerosol form in room temperature for too long that the compound will solidify and stick to surfaces. Turns our Percy’s whole room is pink not just those papers of his.” George snickers quietly dodging the nasty glare that Percy sends his way.

I can’t help but cover my mouth to stop the laughter as well. By the time breakfast is over, we’ve all been assigned our last minute jobs of getting the house in ‘presentable’ order. Personally I don’t see why she cares so much; the house looks fine and like people actually live here.

I’m just finishing my job of mopping up the entire staircase, when Mr. Weasley pops into the living room. “Okay, well we’re off to go get Harry now!” He exclaims. Fred, George, and Ron are with him. My head shoots up at my friend’s name.

“Harry! Can I come with you? I’m done with the stairs promise! I’ve always wanted to see a muggle house before!” I cry. Mr. Weasley smiles at me fondly, nodding his head and motioning me forward towards the fireplace with the rest of them.

“Okay you lot listen up! I’ll go first and the rest of you follow me okay!” Mr. Weasley declares. We nod our heads, and watch as Mr. Weasley steps into the fire. He says the name of Harry’s house while throwing the powder and he’s gone. Fred and George move up and do the same. It comes to be my turn and I grin at Ron.

“We get to see Harry now.” I tell him. With that I say his address and throw the powder vanishing with a turn of my stomach. That is until I hit something hard and bony and get unpleasantly squished in the process. I can hear voices as well.

“Ouch! Fred, no — go back, go back, there’s been some kind of mistake — tell George not to — OUCH! George, no, there’s no room, go back quickly and tell Jamie, wait no Ron —”

With an oomph the air is knocked out of me, as Ron slams into me from behind causing everyone in confined fireplace to groan. This is way too close to the Weasley boys than I ever wanted to be! Not to mention that someone’s knee is in my spine rather painfully.

“Maybe Harry can hear us, Dad — maybe he’ll be able to let us out —” We all start frantically pounding on the wall in front of us.

“Harry? Harry, can you hear us?” I yell.

“Mr. Weasley? Jamie? Can you hear me?” Harry’s voice appears. We stop hammering. “Shh!”

“Mr. Weasley, it’s Harry . . . the fireplace has been blocked up. You won’t be able to get through there.”

“Damn!” says Mr. Weasley’s voice. “What on earth did they want to block up the fireplace for?”

“They’ve got an electric fire,” Harry explains. Why would they do such a thing as that? I swear that I truly don’t understand muggles. Maybe I should have taken Muggle Studies.

“Really?” says Mr. Weasley’s voice excitedly. “Eclectic, you say? With a plug? Gracious, I must see that. . . . Let’s think . . .”

“Ouch Ron!” I cry. Ron has kicked me in the spleen I think.

“What are we doing here? Has something gone wrong?” Ron asks from behind me. Someone pulls my hair and I hiss in pain.

“Oh no, Ron,” comes Fred’s voice, very sarcastically. “No, this is exactly where we wanted to end up.”

“Yeah, we’re having the time of our lives here,” says George, whose voice sounds muffled, as though he is squashed against the wall.

“Boys, boys . . .” says Mr. Weasley vaguely. “I’m trying to think what to do. . . . Yes . . . only way . . . Stand back, Harry.”

Oh thank you Merlin finally someone is going to do something about this horrible situation.

BANG. The electric fire shoots across the room as the boarded-up fireplace bursts outward, expelling Mr. Weasley, Fred, George, Ron, and I in a cloud of rubble and loose chippings. Harry’s aunt Petunia shrieks and falls backwards over the coffee table; his uncle Vernon catches her before she hits the floor, and gapes, speechless, at the Weasleys and me as we tumble to the floor in a heap.

“That’s better,” pants Mr. Weasley, brushing dust from his long green robes and straightening his glasses. “Ah — you must be Harry’s aunt and uncle!”

I groan I stretch out my cramped limbs painfully. I rub at the back of my head from where it was hit; a cramped little greeting room, and the frightening sight of the Dursleys greet me.

Tall, thin, and balding, Mr. Weasley moves towards uncle Vernon, his hand outstretched, but he backs away several paces, dragging aunt Petunia. Words utterly fail uncle Vernon. His best suit is covered in white dust, which has settled in his hair and mustache and makes him look as though he has just aged thirty years.

“Er — yes — sorry about that,” says Mr. Weasley, lowering his hand and looking over his shoulder at the blasted fireplace. “It’s all my fault. It just didn’t occur to me that we wouldn’t be able to get out at the other end. I had your fireplace connected to the Floo Network, you see — just for an afternoon, you know, so we could get Harry. Muggle fireplaces aren’t supposed to be connected, strictly speaking — but I’ve got a useful contact at the Floo Regulation Panel and he fixed it for me. I can put it right in a jiffy, though, don’t worry. I’ll light a fire to send the boys back, and then I can repair your fireplace before I Disapparate.”

“Hello, Harry!” says Mr. Weasley brightly. “Got your trunk ready?”

“It’s upstairs,” says Harry, grinning back. I beam at my friend. Its been far too long. He’s grown taller as well.

“We’ll get it,” says Fred at once. Winking at Harry, he and George leave the room. They knew where Harry’s bedroom is, all of us having once rescued him from it in the dead of night. I suspect that Fred and George are hoping for a glimpse of Dudley; they have heard a lot about him from Harry.

I grin and bounce over to Harry throwing my arms around him in a tight hug. “Its good to see you again Harry! I can’t believe that we got stuck in there! I never wanted to be that close to those boys in my life!” I cry. Harry chuckles, and squeezes me back as well.

I look up and see the looks of distaste clear on Harry’s aunt and uncle’s faces. I pull back from Harry a little blushing at the sudden attention that was attracted to us. What? I girl can’t hug her friend that she hasn’t seen in a long time anymore? Ron is standing there with a nervous and dumbfounded look on his face.

I release Harry and take a step back, suddenly unsure of if I did the right thing of hugging him while in this house.

“Well,” says Mr. Weasley, swinging his arms slightly, while he tries to find words to break the very nasty silence. “Very — erm — very nice place you’ve got here.”

This remark doesn’t seem to go down too well with the Dursleys. Uncle Vernon’s face purples once more, and Aunt Petunia starts chewing her tongue again. However, they seem too scared to actually say anything.

Mr. Weasley is looking around. He loves everything to do with Muggles. I can see him itching to go and examine the odd screened contraptions in the corner.

“They run off eckeltricity, do they?” he says knowledgeably. “Ah yes, I can see the plugs. I collect plugs,” he adds to Uncle Vernon. “And batteries. Got a very large collection of batteries. My wife thinks I’m mad, but there you are.”

Uncle Vernon clearly thinks Mr. Weasley is mad too. He moves ever so slightly to the right, screening Aunt Petunia from view, as though he thinks Mr. Weasley might suddenly run at them and attack. I wish, that would at least be amusing, but that isn’t going to be happening.

A very large boy with a chubby face appears in the room. A flat mop of blond hair sits on top his head, and his blue eyes are watery. I can hear the clunk of Harry’s trunk coming down the stairs. The boy makes his way for his parents but freezes when he catches sight of me.

I raise my eyebrow at him questioningly. So this must be Dudley. Poor boy, it looks like it must hurt to think, by the looks of him. I don’t understand why he’s staring at me though. A pink flush comes to his cheeks. “H-hi I’m Dudley.” The boy stammers offering me a small wave. Okay this is ridiculous.

I raise my hand in return, and his mother reaches out and snatches him to her side leveling me the most evil glare that she can. What on earth is that all about? I swear, I don’t understand muggles at all. Harry glances at me his eyes twinkling, and I can tell that he’s attempting to smother a laugh.

“Ah, this is your cousin, is it, Harry?” says Mr. Weasley, taking another brave stab at making conversation.

“Yep,” says Harry, “that’s Dudley.” Quite a stunning example of poor personal care that one certainly is, Harry had mentioned that the whole family has to go on diet because of him and his weight issues.

“Having a good holiday, Dudley?” Mr. Weasley says kindly. Dudley whimpers. I see his hands tighten over his massive backside.

Fred and George come back into the room carrying Harry’s school trunk. They glance around as they enter and spot Dudley. Their faces crack into identical evil grins. Oh no, I think that I know where this is going.

“Ah, right,” says Mr. Weasley. “Better get cracking then.” He pushes up the sleeves of his robes and takes out his wand. I see the Dursleys draw back against the wall as one.

“Incendio!” says Mr. Weasley, pointing his wand at the hole in the wall behind him.

Flames rise at once in the fireplace, crackling merrily as though they have been burning for hours. Mr. Weasley takes a small drawstring bag from his pocket, unties it, takes a pinch of the powder inside, and throws it onto the flames, which turns emerald green and roars higher than ever.

“Off you go then, Fred,” says Mr. Weasley.

“Coming,” says Fred. “Oh no — hang on —”

A bag of sweets has spilled out of Fred’s pocket and the contents are now rolling in every direction — big, fat toffees in brightly colored wrappers. Oh I know those. Those we worked on earlier. This will be interesting.

Fred scrambles around, cramming them back into his pocket, then gives the Dursleys a cheery wave, steps forward, and walks right into the fire, saying “the Burrow!” Aunt Petunia gives a little shuddering gasp. There is a whooshing sound, and Fred vanishes.

Okay it is amusing watching muggles witness magic I must admit. Then again, they haven’t ever seen it before.

“Right then, George,” says Mr. Weasley, “you and the trunk.” Harry helps George carry the trunk forward into the flames and turn it onto its end so that he can hold it better. Then, with a second whoosh, George has cried “the Burrow!” and vanishes too.

“Ron, you next,” says Mr. Weasley.

“See you,” says Ron brightly to the Dursleys. He grins broadly at Harry and me, then steps into the fire, shouts “the Burrow!” and disappears. Now Harry, Mr. Weasley, and I remain.

“Now you Jamie.” He directs to me. Dudley makes an odd whimpering noise from behind his parents as he peeks around me to look at them. I glare at Harry since he’s now snickering at me.

“I’ll see you soon Harry, I’m just counting the seconds.” I growl at my friend, smirking in triumph as his eyes widen worriedly. “The Burrow!” I say. My world spins out of focus until it comes back together in the living room of the Burrow.

Fred, George, Ron, and I sit on the couch staring at the fireplace waiting for Harry and Mr. Weasley to come back. “I can’t believe you did that! I don’t even think your Dad will protect you now.” I tell them shaking my head.

“What’s going on now?” Ron asks confusedly.

“Well we might have…” Fred starts.

“Slipped a few of our newest products to the floor in the living room there. Knew that the great blob of a boy wouldn’t be able to resist the temptation of the false candy.” George chuckles. I grin at the pair of them.

“Plus, that slimy blob is not good enough for our Lady Jamie. We saw the way that he was looking at you, and that’s unacceptable!” Fred puts in again. My eyes widen at that information.

“Wait a minute! You’re telling me that Dudley, the Dudley that makes Harry’s life hell has— has a crush on me?” I cry. The twins give me duh looks and I jump up from my seat on the couch shaking from revulsion.

“Oh Merlin! That is so not okay! I feel dirty this is just wrong!” I cry. A shiver runs down my spine and I debate on whether or not I have enough time to run back upstairs and take another quick shower before Harry arrives. My decision is taken away from me though when new voices greet my ears.

Two new tall redheads are now in the kitchen. Fred and George grin from ear to ear and bound there. I follow behind them uncertainly. I watch as the twins hug the two men that I’ve never met before but have to be Weasleys. Suddenly the greetings break apart and all four of them turn to see me.

“Jamie let me introduce you to our slightly cooler, but still outrageously boring brothers Bill and Charlie.” Fred and George declare. I wave at the pair of them uncertainly.

Well this is certainly going to be interesting.


	3. Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything you recognize is J.K. Rowling's. Except Jamie, Luka, and Ariana.

Chapter 3- Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes

 

I stare uncertainly at the two men, as Ron bursts forward from behind me to embrace the two men currently residing in the Weasleys’ kitchen. “Bill! Charlie! When did you two get in?” Ron asks embracing one brother then the other.

“All in due time Ron. I believe that we have proper introductions to make first.” The oldest looking one says to Ron, placing a hand on his shoulder in a calming manner. The other brother steps forward.

“Hello Jamie, I’m Charlie Weasley older brother to those three knuckleheads.” Charlie introduces himself, holding out a big hand for me to shake. I return his handshake feeling the rough calluses and blisters on his fingers. So this is the famed brother who works with dragons in Romania.

“Nice to meet you.” I respond. He smiles at me kindly and takes a step back towards the kitchen table. Charlie is built like the twins, shorter and stockier than Percy and Ron, who are both long and lanky. He has a broad, good natured face, which is weather beaten and so freckly that he looks almost tanned; his arms are muscular, and one of them has a huge shiny burn on it.

He seems to catch me staring at it. “Your namesake is quite the dangerous creature Jamie.” Is all that he responds to my curiosity.

Bill the eldest Weasley son and child steps forward offering me his hand. “Bill Weasley, don’t let anything these jokers tell you, give you the wrong impression of me Jamie, and welcome to the family. We met your brother earlier.” He tells me. Bill comes as something of a surprise.

From everything I’ve gathered Bill works for Gringotts, and he had been Head Boy at Hogwarts. I had always imagined him as an older version of Percy, but that couldn’t be further from the truth. There is no other word to describe Bill Weasley but cool.

He is tall with long hair that he has tied back in a ponytail. He is wearing an earring with what looks like a fang dangling from it. Bill’s clothes look like he’s ready to go to a rock concert rather than a day at the office inside of a bank. The boots on his feet are made out of dragon hide.

“Are you sure that you work in a bank?” I question him. Bill throws back his head in a surprised laugh, leading me to the table where the rest of them have sat down. We are talking for a few minutes when all of the sudden Harry comes face forward out of the Weasley’s fire.

Fred thankfully catches him though, and I hurry over to them to make sure that Harry’s okay (and maybe pummel the life out of him).

“Did he eat it?” Fred asks excitedly.

“Yeah,” says Harry straightening up. “What was it?”

“Merely something grand.” I say flippantly.

“Ton-Tongue Toffee,” says Fred brightly. “George and I invented them, along with a little help from Jamie, and we’ve been looking for someone to test it on all summer…” Fred says jollily. The kitchen explodes with laughter and Harry’s attention is diverted to George and Ron who are sitting with the eldest Weasley sons. Harry gets suck over to the pair of them for proper introductions.

Someone slips to my side and I glance over to see Luka standing beside me. “So you’ve met the golden duo?” He asks me softly so as not to be overheard by the group of boys in front of us.

I give my brother a slight reproving look. “They’re nice Luka. There’s no need to be hostile.” I tell him.

“I’m not being hostile! It’s just that now that all seven of them are back home, there’s not going to be a lot of space around here. Maybe we will have to leave, and then Kingsley will see that we’re better off with him, rather than here bothering the Weasleys who already have enough people in their home!” He says excitedly.

I sigh and slowly shake my head at my brother. This move has probably been the hardest on my brother. He and Kingsley had a greater connection than I had.  “Kingsley works practically eleven out of the twelve months of the year consistently. He gets missions practically every other week, and most of the time we were on our own.” I tell him attempting to keep my voice down as so not to attract attention from the happy greetings going on a few feet away.

“Don’t tell me that you now care about all the times that he went away and worked. You and Kingsley were fighting for the whole of last year! You were probably happy to have him gone!” Luka cries. A hushed silence falls over my kitchen. I bite my lower lip hard, and attempt to keep my eyes from watering.

I can feel five pairs of eyes on us, and I grab my brother’s hand and yank him into the living room. Thankfully it is empty now. “I care about Kingsley! He’s been cleaning up my scraped knees and giving me soup when I’ve been sick for ten years! He’s been the closest thing that I’ve had for a father since our parents died. But, that doesn’t mean that I have to like him all that much at the moment! That’s the liberty of being family.” I state wiping at my eyes that are now running.

Luka grits his teeth and crosses his arms over his chest angrily. He shakes his head almost violently. “If you care so much for our family, then you should be willing to fight harder for it!” He shouts. I take a step back from the tone in his voice.

“What family Luka? All I see is you and me with one guardian who has good intentions and two more who are just trying to keep us out of the orphanage! Add to that the fact that there is our psychotic murderer of an uncle who’s locked up! What more is there to want… so I’m sorry if I don’t want to mess with the arrangements anymore in case we do end up with no one!”

“Because as much as Kingsley loves us which I am positive that he does— that’s not going to be able to make him come and take us back! Then we’ll truly have no one.” I cry holding myself to try and keep in my sobs. Luka stares at me for a long time before shaking his head at me.

Before any of the boys from the kitchen or us could say anything else, there is a faint popping noise, and Mr. Weasley appears out of thin air at George’s shoulder. He is looking angrier than I have ever seen him.

“That wasn’t funny, Fred!” he shouts. “What on earth did you give that Muggle boy?”

“I didn’t give him anything,” says Fred, with another evil grin having recovered from our outburst. “I just dropped it. . . . It was his fault he went and ate it, I never told him to.”

“You dropped it on purpose!” roars Mr. Weasley. “You knew he’d eat it, you knew he was on a diet —”

“How big did his tongue get?” George asks eagerly.

“It was four feet long before his parents would let me shrink it!” Harry and the Weasleys roar with laughter.

“It isn’t funny!” Mr. Weasley shouts. “That sort of behavior seriously undermines wizard–Muggle relations! I spend half my life campaigning against the mistreatment of Muggles, and my own sons —”

“We didn’t give it to him because he’s a Muggle!” says Fred indignantly.

“No, we gave it to him because he’s a great bullying git, and has a thing for Jamie” says George. “Isn’t he, Harry?”

“Yeah, he is, Mr. Weasley,” says Harry earnestly.

“That’s not the point!” rages Mr. Weasley. “You wait until I tell your mother —” I feel a presence come up from behind me, and nearly jump a foot in the air when I feel a hand on my shoulder. Mrs. Weasley is taking in my tear stained face, and upset expression.

“I’ll deal with you two later.” She promises the pair of us before turning her attention to the kitchen. My brother and I shoot each other wary looks. Can we actually stand untied against her attack on us?

“Tell me what?” asks Mrs. Weasley entering the kitchen from behind them.

“Oh hello, Harry, dear,” she says, spotting Harry and smiling. Then her eyes snap back to her husband. “Tell me what, Arthur?”

Mr. Weasley hesitates. I can tell that, however angry he is with Fred and George, he didn’t really intend to tell Mrs. Weasley what had happened. There is a silence, while Mr. Weasley eyes his wife nervously. I jump again when I feel a pair of arms wrap around me. From the bushy hair though I can tell that its only my best friend Hermione. She must have arrived a little while ago, and heard the fight.

Ginny squeezes my hand and glares at Luka. As Ginny always loves to say, girls in the Weasley house have to stick together. I don’t miss the way that she goes red though when seeing Harry.

“Tell me what, Arthur?” Mrs. Weasley repeats, in a dangerous sort of voice.

“It’s nothing, Molly,” mumbles Mr. Weasley, “Fred and George just — but I’ve had words with them —”

“What have they done this time?” says Mrs. Weasley. “If it’s got anything to do with Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes —”

“Why don’t you show Harry where he’s sleeping, Ron?” says Hermione from the doorway beside me.

“He knows where he’s sleeping,” says Ron, “in my room, on the camp bed between Luka’s and my bed he slept there last —”

“We can all go,” says Hermione pointedly.

“Oh,” says Ron, cottoning on. “Right.”

“Yeah, we’ll come too,” says George.

“You stay where you are!” snarls Mrs. Weasley. I’m sorry boys but I’m really happy that she’s too busy dealing with you two rather than the issue between Luka and I. I don’t know how much more of this I can take.

Harry and Ron edge out of the kitchen, and they, Hermione, Ginny, and I set off along the narrow hallway and up the rickety staircase that zigzagged through the house to the upper stories. Luka has vanished outside somewhere with is unusual for him, but I guess that things really have changed around here now that he has to share a room with Ron.

“What are Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes?” Harry asks as we climb. Ron and Ginny both laugh while I manage to chuckle, although Hermione doesn’t.

“Mum found this stack of order forms when she was cleaning Fred and George’s room,” says Ron quietly. “Great long price lists for stuff they’ve invented. Joke stuff, you know. Fake wands and trick sweets, loads of stuff. It was brilliant, I never knew they’d been inventing all that . . .”

“We’ve been hearing explosions out of their room for ages, but we never thought they were actually making things,” says Ginny. “We thought they just liked the noise. That is until they let Jamie in on it.”

“Yeah there’s some pretty neat things that they got in there. Yesterday one of their er— experiments got out of hand.” I say scratching my head.

“Only, most of the stuff — well, all of it, really — was a bit dangerous,” says Ron, “and, you know, they were planning to sell it at Hogwarts to make some money, and Mum went mad at them. Told them they weren’t allowed to make any more of it, and burned all the order forms. . . . She’s furious at them anyway. They didn’t get as many O.W.L.s as she expected.”

O.W.L.s are Ordinary Wizarding Levels, the examinations Hogwarts students take at the age of fifteen.

“And then there was this big row,” Ginny explains, “because Mum wants them to go into the Ministry of Magic like Dad, and they told her all they want to do is open a joke shop.” Ah yes, that night was one for the record books. I honestly didn’t know that Mrs. Weasley’s voice could get that high.

Just then Percy’s door on the second landing opens, and a face pokes out wearing horn-rimmed glasses and a very annoyed expression.

“Hi, Percy,” says Harry.

“Oh hello, Harry,” says Percy. “I was wondering who was making all the noise. I’m trying to work in here, you know — I’ve got a report to fix for the office — and it’s rather difficult to concentrate when people keep thundering up and down the stairs.”

“We’re not thundering,” says Ron irritably. “We’re walking. Sorry if we’ve disturbed the top-secret workings of the Ministry of Magic.”

“What are you working on?” asks Harry. Ron, Ginny, and I all groan in unison despite the confused looks from Hermione and Harry.

“A report for the Department of International Magical Cooperation,” says Percy smugly. “We’re trying to standardize cauldron thickness. Some of these foreign imports are just a shade too thin — leakages have been increasing at a rate of almost three percent a year —”

“That’ll change the world, that report will,” says Ron. “Front page of the Daily Prophet, I expect, cauldron leaks.” Percy turns slightly pink.

“You might sneer, Ron,” he snarls heatedly, “but unless some sort of international law is imposed we might well find the market flooded with flimsy, shallow-bottomed products that seriously endanger —”

“Yeah, yeah, all right,” said Ron, and he starts off upstairs again. Percy slams his bedroom door shut. As Harry, Hermione, Ginny, and I follow Ron up three more flights of stairs, shouts from the kitchen below echo up to us. It sounds as though Mr. Weasley has told Mrs. Weasley about the toffees.

The room at the top of the house where Ron and Luka sleep look much as it had the last time that Harry had come to stay: the same posters of Ron’s favorite Quidditch team, the Chudley Cannons, were whirling and waving on the walls and sloping ceiling, and the fish tank on the windowsill, which had previously held frog spawn, now contains one extremely large frog.

The only difference is that there is now another bed in the room permanently and one half of the room is immaculately kept while the other is disorderly now after Ron was forced to clean. I go over to my brother desk and can practically see my reflection in the wood for he’s polished it so much.

There’s a tiny gray owl hooting from atop Ron’s dresser, with the gleaming eyes of Sophocles Luka’s cat gleaming at it. The owl is hopping up and down in a small cage and twittering madly.

“Shut up, Pig,” says Ron, edging his way between two of the five beds that have been squeezed into the room. “Fred and George are in here with us, because Bill and Charlie are in their room, and Luka now lives with me,” he tells Harry. “Percy gets to keep his room all to himself because he’s got to work.”

“Er — why are you calling that owl Pig?” Harry asks Ron, attempting to calm Ron down.

“Because he’s being stupid,” says Ginny. “Its proper name is Pigwidgeon.”

“Yeah, and that’s not a stupid name at all,” says Ron sarcastically. “Ginny named him,” he explains to Harry and Hermione. “She reckons it’s sweet. And I tried to change it, but it was too late, he won’t answer to anything else. So now he’s Pig. I’ve got to keep him up here because he annoys Errol and Hermes. He annoys me too, come to that.”

Pigwidgeon zooms happily around his cage, hooting shrilly. I know Ron too well to take him seriously. He had moaned continually about his old rat, Scabbers, but had been most upset when Hermione’s cat, Crookshanks, appeared to have eaten him.

“Where’s Crookshanks?” Harry asks Hermione now.

“Out in the garden, I expect,” she says. “He likes chasing gnomes. He’s never seen any before.” I smirk at the thought of that fluffy ginger puff ball biting gnomes bottoms. Well if that won’t cheer a person up, then I don’t know what will.

“Percy’s enjoying work, then?” asks Harry, sitting down on one of the beds and watching the Chudley Cannons zooming in and out of the posters on the ceiling.

“Enjoying it?” says Ron darkly. “I don’t reckon he’d come home if Dad didn’t make him. He’s obsessed. Just don’t get him onto the subject of his boss. According to Mr. Crouch . . . as I was saying to Mr. Crouch . . . Mr. Crouch is of the opinion . . . Mr. Crouch was telling me . . . They’ll be announcing their engagement any day now.” I laugh out loud at that. I can easily attest to the amount of times that he’s mentioned his boss. Its starting to get very annoying.

“Have you had a good summer, Harry?” asks Hermione. “Did you get our food parcels and everything?”

“Yeah, thanks a lot,” replies Harry. “They saved my life, those cakes.”

“So Jamie… I know this might be kind of a sore subject at the moment but… how do you like living at the Burrow?” Harry asks me turning to look at me. All four sets of eyes are on me now. I bite my lips and glance at my brothers bed that’s been cramped into the wall.

“Personally I love it here. There’s always someone around, and there’s never a dull moment— but Luka has been having trouble adjusting and so have I. We’ve been with Kingsley for our whole lives but, now we’re not anymore.” I say. Silence greets me for a few seconds.

“Is there anything that I can do? You can have more drawer space if you want.” Ginny pipes up, coming to stand next to me. I smile at my friend softly and shake my head.

“No such thing needed. Just adjusting to big family life I guess. Its not as easy as it looks.” I say with a chuckle.

“I’ll say! You can’t get any privacy around here!” Ron cries. We all laugh at that. Harry looks wistfully at the three of us who live here.

“I’d be fine with it, I would take your place any day.” He tells us. I give my friend a sad look and shake my head. I do feel sorry for Harry. The Dursleys is no place for a kid to live, especially a kid like Harry.

“And have you heard from — ?” Ron begins looking at Harry, but at a look from Hermione he falls silent. I know Ron had been about to ask about Sirius. Ron, Hermione, and I had been so deeply involved in helping Sirius escape from the Ministry of Magic that we are almost as concerned about Harry’s godfather as he is. However, discussing him in front of Ginny is a bad idea. Nobody but us and Professor Dumbledore know about how Sirius had escaped, or believe in his innocence.

“I think they’ve stopped arguing,” says Hermione, to cover the awkward moment, because Ginny is looking curiously from Ron, Harry, and finally settles on me. “Shall we go down and help your mum with dinner?”

I feel guilty about lying to the girl but there’s no other way around it. “Yeah, all right,” says Ron. The five of us leave Ron’s room and go back downstairs to find Mrs. Weasley alone in the kitchen, looking extremely bad-tempered. This can’t be good.

“We’re eating out in the garden,” she says when we come in. “There’s just not room for thirteen people in here. Can you take the plates outside, girls? Bill and Charlie are setting up the tables. Knives and forks, please, you two,” she says to Ron and Harry, pointing her wand a little more vigorously than she had intended at a pile of potatoes in the sink, which shoot out of their skins so fast that they ricochet off the walls and ceiling.

Hermione, Ginny, and I take the plates and run out of the kitchen, not having to be told twice. We have only gone a few paces when Hermione’s bandy-legged ginger cat, Crookshanks, comes pelting out of the garden, bottlebrush tail held high in the air, chasing what looks like a muddy potato on legs. I recognize it instantly as a gnome from all the times that I’ve degnomed the garden now. Barely ten inches high, its horny little feet patter very fast as it sprints across the yard and dives headlong into one of the Wellington boots that lay scattered around the door.

Harry and Ron join the three of us quickly. Meanwhile, a very loud crashing noise is coming from the other side of the house. The source of the commotion is revealed as we enter the garden, and see that Bill and Charlie both have their wands out, and are making two battered old tables fly high above the lawn, smashing into each other, each attempting to knock the other’s out of the air. Fred and George are cheering, Ginny is laughing, Hermione was hovering between amusement and anxiety.

I laugh at the antics that the two oldest boys are doing. They’re full grown adults and now they’re still acting like children. With a pang of sadness I realize that while Luka and I are close, we have never done any of the childish things together. I glance around the yard attempting to find him, but am unable to. I wonder where he got off to?

Bill’s table catches Charlie’s with a huge bang and knocks one of its legs off. There is a clatter from overhead, and we all look up to see Percy’s head poking out of a window on the second floor.

“Will you keep it down?!” he bellows.

“Sorry, Perce,” says Bill, grinning. “How’re the cauldron bottoms coming on?”

“Very badly,” says Percy peevishly, and he slams the window shut. Chuckling, Bill and Charlie direct the tables safely onto the grass, end to end, and then, with a flick of his wand, Bill reattaches the table leg and conjures tablecloths from nowhere. I really wish that I am allowed to use magic on my own.

By seven o’clock, the two tables are groaning under dishes and dishes of Mrs. Weasley’s excellent cooking, and the nine Weasleys, Harry, Hermione, Luka, and I are settling ourselves down to eat beneath a clear, deep-blue sky.

At the far end of the table, Percy is telling his father all about his report on cauldron bottoms.

“I’ve told Mr. Crouch that I’ll have it ready by Tuesday,” Percy is saying pompously. “That’s a bit sooner than he expected it, but I like to keep on top of things. I think he’ll be grateful I’ve done it in good time, I mean, it’s extremely busy in our department just now, what with all the arrangements for the World Cup. We’re just not getting the support we need from the Department of Magical Games and Sports. Ludo Bagman —”

“I like Ludo,” says Mr. Weasley mildly. “He was the one who got us such good tickets for the Cup. I did him a bit of a favor: His brother, Otto, got into a spot of trouble — a lawnmower with unnatural powers — I smoothed the whole thing over.”

“Oh Bagman’s likable enough, of course,” says Percy dismissively, “but how he ever got to be Head of Department . . . when I compare him to Mr. Crouch! I can’t see Mr. Crouch losing a member of our department and not trying to find out what’s happened to them. You realize Bertha Jorkins has been missing for over a month now? Went on holiday to Albania and never came back?”

“Yes, I was asking Ludo about that,” says Mr. Weasley, frowning. “He says Bertha’s gotten lost plenty of times before now — though I must say, if it was someone in my department, I’d be worried. . . .”

Right now I’m just sitting back and allowing everyone else to talk for a while. I’m drained from my fight with my brother. I keep glancing over at him but he’s been brooding down at his plate for the whole while.

“Oh Bertha’s hopeless, all right,” says Percy. “I hear she’s been shunted from department to department for years, much more trouble than she’s worth . . . but all the same, Bagman ought to be trying to find her. Mr. Crouch has been taking a personal interest, she worked in our department at one time, you know, and I think Mr. Crouch was quite fond of her — but Bagman just keeps laughing and saying she probably misread the map and ended up in Australia instead of Albania. However” — Percy heaves an impressive sigh and takes a deep swig of elderflower wine — “we’ve got quite enough on our plates at the Department of International Magical Cooperation without trying to find members of other departments too. As you know, we’ve got another big event to organize right after the World Cup.”

Does he ever stop talking? Percy clears his throat significantly and looks down toward the end of the table where Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I are sitting. “You know the one I’m talking about, Father.” He raises his voice slightly. “The top-secret one.”

Ron rolls his eyes and muttered to Harry and Hermione, “He’s been trying to get us to ask what that event is ever since he started work. Probably an exhibition of thick-bottomed cauldrons.”

In the middle of the table, Mrs. Weasley is arguing with Bill about his earring, which seems to be a recent acquisition. “. . . with a horrible great fang on it. Really, Bill, what do they say at the bank?”

“Mum, no one at the bank gives a damn how I dress as long as I bring home plenty of treasure,” says Bill patiently.

“And your hair’s getting silly, dear,” says Mrs. Weasley, fingering her wand lovingly. “I wish you’d let me give it a trim. . . .”

“I like it,” says Ginny, who is sitting beside Bill. “You’re so old-fashioned, Mum. Anyway, it’s nowhere near as long as Professor Dumbledore’s. . . .”

Next to Mrs. Weasley, Fred, George, and Charlie are all talking spiritedly about the World Cup. “It’s got to be Ireland,” says Charlie thickly, through a mouthful of potato. “They flattened Peru in the semifinals.”

“Bulgaria has got Viktor Krum, though,” says Fred.

“Krum’s one decent player, Ireland has got seven,” says Charlie shortly. “I wish England had got through. That was embarrassing, that was.”

“What happened?” asks Harry eagerly wanting to get back into the Quidditch mood. I’m not really up for talk of this though.

“Went down to Transylvania, three hundred and ninety to ten,” says Charlie gloomily. “Shocking performance. And Wales lost to Uganda, and Scotland was slaughtered by Luxembourg.”

Mr. Weasley conjures up candles to light the darkening garden before we have our homemade strawberry ice cream, and by the time we have finished, moths are fluttering low over the table, and the warm air is perfumed with the smells of grass and honeysuckle. I am feeling extremely well fed and at a little better as I watch several gnomes sprinting through the rosebushes, laughing madly and closely pursued by Crookshanks.

Ron looks carefully up the table to check that the rest of the family is all busy talking, then he says very quietly to Harry, “So — have you heard from Sirius lately?”

Hermione looks around, listening closely, and I casually turn in my seat to face them more closely. “Yeah,” says Harry softly, “twice. He sounds okay. I wrote to him yesterday. He might write back while I’m here.”

“Look at the time,” Mrs. Weasley says suddenly, checking her wristwatch. “You really should be in bed, the whole lot of you — you’ll be up at the crack of dawn to get to the Cup. Harry, if you leave your school list out, I’ll get your things for you tomorrow in Diagon Alley. I’m getting everyone else’s. There might not be time after the World Cup, the match went on for five days last time.”

“Wow — hope it does this time!” says Harry enthusiastically.

“That would be wicked!” I cry.

“Well, I certainly don’t,” says Percy sanctimoniously. “I shudder to think what the state of my in-tray would be if I was away from work for five days.”

“Yeah, someone might slip dragon dung in it again, eh, Perce?” says Fred.

“That was a sample of fertilizer from Norway!” cries Percy, going very red in the face. “It was nothing personal!”

“It was,” Fred whispered to me as we get up from the table. “We sent it.” I snicker behind my hand and follow everyone else inside.

* * *

 

I’m woken up after what seems like five minutes. I groan into my pillow. Hermione, Ginny, and I were up for an hour talking last night, and I really need my beauty rest now. I’m shaken again just as I’m about to roll over to go to sleep again.

“Jamie… come on dear.” Mrs. Weasley’s voice comes through to my sleep addled brain finally. I crack open my eyes to look at her.

“Mrs. Weasley…” I grumble. She nods her head and pulls the blanket off my form.

“Quickly Jamie come now.” She tells me helping me get off my bunk, and out into the hall silently so as not to wake up the other girls. Once out in the hallway I rub my eyes, and yawn.

Why am I up when everyone else is asleep? I’m a growing girl and sleep is something that I tend to need if I want to be a fully functioning human being the next day. “Wha’s going on?” I yawn stretching my arms behind my back not noticing the worried looks of Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, and Bill.

“Jamie, did you see Luka before you went to bed tonight?” Mr. Weasley asks me seriously. I freeze shocked at the question that she’s just asked me.

“No… why do you ask that?” I ask hesitantly not sure if I want to know the answer or not.

“Well… we can’t seem to find him anywhere are the house at all, and the fireplace looks like its been used.” Bill tells me softly.

“What are you saying?” I ask a hysterical edge to my voice.

“What we’re saying dear is that we can’t find him. I don’t believe that Luka is here.” Mrs. Weasley says lightly. I can feel the blood rushing to my ears, and it feels like my heart is beating in my throat.

“So you’re saying— you’re saying that Luka has run away. T-that he’s gone?” I ask. There is no negating response to deny the finality of my claim.


	4. The Portkey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything you recognize is J.K. Rowling's. Except Jamie, Luka, and Ariana.

Chapter 4- The Portkey

 

The mug of hot cocoa had long since gone cold in my hands. The clock on the living room wall was the loudest thing in the house at the moment. Mr. Weasley is busy frantically pacing back and forth in front of the fireplace waiting for a call, and Mrs. Weasley is sitting on the couch next to me with her arm wrapped firmly around my shoulders.

I can’t believe that this is happening. I can’t believe that my rule-abiding brother has actually run away. Guilt eats me up from inside at the reminder that we had fought yesterday. I didn’t think that he was this truly unhappy. It has always been just the two of us against the world. If anything I was the one who should have gone with him as well.

This was the first time that we had made a major decision without the other when at home. I wince at the reminder that we truly don’t have a home anymore. We’re just borrowing this one until Kingsley has the time to care for us more. “That boy… I don’t know what’s going on with him.” Mr. Weasley says finally after a few more minutes of silence.

Mrs. Weasley and I look up at him, being the only two in the room with him. Bill had long since been sent to sleep. There is no need for him to be more exhausted then he has to be for tomorrow. Mrs. Weasley had attempted to get me to go back to sleep as well, but I am wide awake now, and will not rest easy until my brother comes back.

Besides the amount of times that I have had a sleepless night at school and then went to class the next day is impressive. “Arthur its hard to adjust…” Mrs. Weasley tells him.

“I know that Molly but we have gone over the situation with him countless times, and Kingsley has made a few visits over here this summer when he has had the time! This situations isn’t easy for everyone, and has no need to go disappearing from the house.” Mr. Weasley says sounding very upset. I’m rather surprised since Mrs. Weasley is usually the one to react strongly out of the pair of them.

“It was because of our fight.” I say softly. The two adults turn their attention to me.

“No Jamie this wasn’t your fault. Luka makes his own decisions not you.” Mr. Weasley tells me.

“You’re both growing up, life becomes less black and white and more shades of gray. I’m not going to lie Jamie, life has not been easy for you and your brother, and growing up comes with its challenges, but I believe that you two will be able pull through it stronger than ever. At the end of the day Jamie, Luka is still your brother and you two will be beside each other in the long run.” Mrs. Weasley says.

I bite my lower lip, and try to stop the tears that want to come from falling. Mrs. Weasley pulls me into her side further. “You will always have us Jamie dear. Never forget that.” She whispers pressing a kiss into my hair on the side of my head.

Before anything else can be said the fire flares from behind Mr. Weasley and a face can be seen in the flames. I recognize Kingsley after a few seconds. “Arthur.” Kingsley says in way of greeting.

“Kingsley do you have him?” Mr. and Mrs. Weasley ask fretfully at the exact same time. Kingsley looks behind him in the fire, and then turns back to us.

“Yes he Arthur, Molly. Luka here used floo powder to get to the Ministry… he managed to talk his way to the aurors office to see me. He was lucky that I was in, a half hour later and I would have been on my way to France.” Kingsley says. The three of us let out a relieved breath of air on hearing that Luka is safe.

“Thank Merlin.” I mutter tuning out the Weasleys’ relived cries for a few moments.

“Look Molly, Arthur, I’m going to keep Luka with me tonight. There are some things that we need to talk about. I understand that you’re going to the World Cup Match tomorrow, and I will return him to you bright and early tomorrow.” Kingsley says.

“Yes, that will be fine.” Mr. Weasley tells him.

“Thank you so much Kingsley for finding him and keeping him safe.” Mrs. Weasley says tearfully. Before they can disconnect the call I put my mug on the table, and step in front of the fire. Kingsley’s gaze focuses on me.

“Luka’s okay right Kingsley? I-I mean he’s not hurt or anything right?” I ask him gripping my hands on my pajama bottoms.

“He’ll be fine Jamie. Your brother will be back home tomorrow morning. You look tired Jame, I think its time for you to go back to bed.” He tells me softly. I bite my lip hard, but allow Mr. Weasley to pull me to my feet, and hand me off to Mrs. Weasley.

“Bye Kingsley.” I tell him emotion wavering in my voice. Mrs. Weasley ushers me up the stairs and back into my room, where she helps me navigate the ladder to my bed in the dark. I crawl under the covers, and burry my face into my pillow.

“Everything will be fine Jamie. I’ll see you shortly in the morning.” She tells me, before turning around and leaving the room, closing the door behind her. I let out a long shaky breath, and close my eyes. Growing up sucks. 

* * *

 

What feels like ten minutes later, the light is turned on in the room, and Mrs. Weasley’s voice is heard from the doorway. “Rise and shine girls. Time to get up and at ‘em.” She says going to the camp bed and shaking Hermione for sleep before coming to me.

She shakes me as well, and as soon as I open my eyes she moves on to waking up Ginny who is always a bear when she wakes up really early in the morning. Trust me, I tried it one time and I almost lost my hand for the trouble. It is still dark outside.

“’S’ time already?” says Ginny groggily. We dress in silence, too sleepy to talk, then, yawning and stretching, the three of us head downstairs into the kitchen. When we arrive there I’m instantly awoken by the slumped figure of my brother sitting at the kitchen table.

Mrs. Weasley is stirring the contents of a large pot on the stove, while Mr. Weasley is sitting at the table, checking a sheaf of large parchment tickets. Luka sits up as he sees us come into the kitchen. His eyes lock onto mine instantly. I can tell by the earnest gaze that he wants to talk.

He flicks his gaze to Mr. and Mrs. Weasley uncertainly. Mr. Weasley is looking up from the tickets to us. He nods his head slightly in the direction of the living room, and we take it. As soon as we’re far enough away for a modicum of privacy my brother turns to me.

We stare at each other in silence for a few seconds. I can feel the eyes from everyone in the kitchen on us. “Look Jamie I’m really sorry about yesterday. I-I shouldn’t have said some of those things to you. I-I do know that you care about our family. Merlin, you do half the crazy ass things that you do for family.” Luka tells me.

I release my lower lip from its hold. Man do I have to stop doing that. “Luka…” I start but he holds up his hand to let him finish.

“Kingsley talked with me last night for a while, and he told me a lot about what happened between the two of you. He explained everything that I didn’t know before, and about how he stills loves you, and about how you love him. Family fights… I know that, and sometimes… family just can’t be together.” He says.

I stare at him for a few moments. “Luka you’re not the only one that needs to apologize. I’m sorry that I made you think that I didn’t care anymore. In fact I do care, I care so much that sometimes it hurts to breathe, but havin you, the Weasleys, Harry, and Hermione make it bearable. I will never be alone, and this is thanks to you and those people in the kitchen.” I tell him.

“As long as the two of us are together and on the same page, we’ll make it through brother, I promise you that.” I tell him starting to choke on the emotion that I’m feeling. Luka grins at me sadly, and embraces me in a crushing hug. I hold tightly to my brother. We’re going to be okay. It’s going to take some time but I believe that we’ll make it.

We break apart and I look at my brother a second before rearing back and punching him hard in the arm. “OW! What was that for?” Luka cries.

“That was for making me worried last night, and taking away time that I could have been asleep!” I glare at him turning around and stalking back into the kitchen. Feeling justified and pleased with my punch.

As the boys file into the kitchen I take a closer look at what Mr. Weasley is actually wearing. He is wearing what appears to be a golfing sweater and a very old pair of jeans, slightly too big for him and held up with a thick leather belt.

“What d’you think?” he asks anxiously. “We’re supposed to go incognito — do I look like a Muggle, Harry?”

“Yeah,” says Harry, smiling, “very good.”

“Where’re Bill and Charlie and Per-Per-Percy?” says George, failing to stifle a huge yawn. Luka is sitting beside me and whispering about what his punishment is exactly. He can still go to the match but he has to stay at Mr. Weasley’s side the entire time, and when we get back the burrow he’s grounded for a month starting then. That sucks for his grounding is definitely going to carry over into winter break, or the next time that we come back here for break.

“Well, they’re Apparating, aren’t they?” says Mrs. Weasley, heaving the large pot over to the table and starting to ladle porridge into bowls. “So they can have a bit of a lie-in.”

“So they’re still in bed?” says Fred grumpily, pulling his bowl of porridge towards him. “Why can’t we Apparate too?”

“Because you’re not of age and you haven’t passed your test,” snaps Mrs. Weasley. I can see that she’s still upset with them from yesterday. Truthfully I wonder if Mrs. Weasley isn’t just perpetually angry with Fred and George.

“You have to pass a test to Apparate?” Harry asks. Sometimes I forget that Harry doesn’t know everything about the wizarding world still. Maybe Hermione can get him a book on that for Christmas.

“Oh yes,” says Mr. Weasley, tucking the tickets safely into the back pocket of his jeans. “The Department of Magical Transportation had to fine a couple of people the other day for Apparating without a license. It’s not easy, Apparition, and when it’s not done properly it can lead to nasty complications. This pair I’m talking about went and Splinched themselves.”

Everyone around the table except Harry winces. That is not something that I ever want happening to me.

“Er — Splinched?” asks Harry.

“They left half of themselves behind,” says Mr. Weasley, now spooning large amounts of treacle onto his porridge. “So, of course, they were stuck. Couldn’t move either way. Had to wait for the Accidental Magic Reversal Squad to sort them out. Meant a fair old bit of paperwork, I can tell you, what with the Muggles who spotted the body parts they’d left behind. . . .”

I blanch at the thought and stare down at my breakfast suddenly losing my appetite.  “Were they okay?” Harry asks, startled.

“Oh yes,” says Mr. Weasley matter-of-factly. “But they got a heavy fine, and I don’t think they’ll be trying it again in a hurry. You don’t mess around with Apparition. There are plenty of adult wizards who don’t bother with it. Prefer brooms — slower, but safer.”

“But Bill and Charlie and Percy can all do it?” Harry questions again.

“Charlie had to take the test twice,” says Fred, grinning. “He failed the first time, Apparated five miles south of where he meant to, right on top of some poor old dear doing her shopping, remember?”

Okay now that is hilarious! I snort into my pumpkin juice at hearing that. I am so going to remember that in case I need blackmail material.

“Yes, well, he passed the second time,” says Mrs. Weasley.

“Percy only passed two weeks ago,” says George. “He’s been Apparating downstairs every morning since, just to prove he can.” What an annoying git he is doing so. He popped up right behind me, and made my porridge fly in the air, luckily hitting him though, and not me.

“Remind me again why we have to be up so early?” Ginny asks sleepily rubbing at her eyes. I grab a piece of toast and hand put it on her plate to make sure that she’s eating.

“We’ve got a bit of a walk,” says Mr. Weasley.

“Walk?” I cry. “What, are we walking to the World Cup?” I am so not doing that.

“No, no, that’s miles away,” says Mr. Weasley, smiling. “We only need to walk a short way. It’s just that it’s very difficult for a large number of wizards to congregate without attracting Muggle attention. We have to be very careful about how we travel at the best of times, and on a huge occasion like the Quidditch World Cup —”

“George!” says Mrs. Weasley sharply, and we all jump. This can’t be good.

“What?” says George, in an innocent tone that deceives nobody.

“What is that in your pocket?”

“Nothing!”

“Don’t you lie to me!”

Mrs. Weasley points her wand at George’s pocket and says, “Accio!” Several small, brightly colored objects zoom out of George’s pocket; he makes a grab for them but misses, and they speed right into Mrs. Weasley’s outstretched hand.

“We told you to destroy them!” cries Mrs. Weasley furiously, holding up what are unmistakably more Ton-Tongue Toffees. “We told you to get rid of the lot! Empty your pockets, go on, both of you!”

And there goes a lot of hard work and most of my summer down the drain. It is an unpleasant scene; the twins were evidently trying to smuggle as many toffees out of the house as possible, and it is only by using her Summoning Charm that Mrs. Weasley manages to find them all.

“Accio! Accio! Accio!” she shouts, and toffees zoom from all sorts of unlikely places, including the lining of George’s jacket and the turn-ups of Fred’s jeans.

“We spent six months developing those!” Fred shouts at his mother as she throws the toffees away.

“Oh a fine way to spend six months!” she shrieks. “No wonder you didn’t get more O.W.L.s!”

Luka and I share a glance with each other. This is really different from what we are used to.

All in all, the atmosphere is not very friendly as we take our departure. Mrs. Weasley is still glowering as she kisses Mr. Weasley on the cheek, though not nearly as much as the twins, who have each hoisted their rucksacks onto their backs and walk out without a word to her.

“Well, have a lovely time,” says Mrs. Weasley, “and behave yourselves,” she called after the twins’ retreating backs, but they did not look back or answer. “I’ll send Bill, Charlie, and Percy along around midday,” Mrs. Weasley says to Mr. Weasley, as he, Harry, Ron, Hermione, Ginny, Luka, and I set off across the dark yard after Fred and George.

My brother is walking directly beside Mr. Weasley I notice keeping strict to the new rule set forth on him. I keep a nice pace with Harry, Hermione, and Ginny. There’s no need to talk to the twins when they’re in a malevolent mood. Even I am not safe from them then.

It is chilly and the moon is still out. Only a dull, greenish tinge along the horizon to their right shows that daybreak is drawing closer. Harry, having been thinking about thousands of wizards speeding toward the Quidditch World Cup, speeds up to walk with Mr. Weasley and we come along with him having nothing better to do.

“So how does everyone get there without all the Muggles noticing?” he asks.

“It’s been a massive organizational problem,” sighs Mr. Weasley. “The trouble is, about a hundred thousand wizards turn up at the World Cup, and of course, we just haven’t got a magical site big enough to accommodate them all. There are places Muggles can’t penetrate, but imagine trying to pack a hundred thousand wizards into Diagon Alley or platform nine and three-quarters. So we had to find a nice deserted moor, and set up as many anti-Muggle precautions as possible. The whole Ministry’s been working on it for months. First, of course, we have to stagger the arrivals. People with cheaper tickets have to arrive two weeks beforehand.”

“A limited number use Muggle transport, but we can’t have too many clogging up their buses and trains — remember, wizards are coming from all over the world. Some Apparate, of course, but we have to set up safe points for them to appear, well away from Muggles. I believe there’s a handy wood they’re using as the Apparition point. For those who don’t want to Apparate, or can’t, we use Portkeys. They’re objects that are used to transport wizards from one spot to another at a prearranged time. You can do large groups at a time if you need to. There have been two hundred Portkeys placed at strategic points around Britain, and the nearest one to us is up at the top of Stoatshead Hill, so that’s where we’re headed.”

Wow, I didn’t know that all of that went into planning the logistics to even get to the World Cup. Mr. Weasley points ahead of us, where a large black mass rises beyond the village of Ottery St. Catchpole. Okay so we do have quite a walk to complete.

Ginny starts lagging behind claiming the defense of still being half asleep, so I grab her hand to drag her along with me, so she doesn’t get left behind. Ginny loves Quidditch just as much as I do if not more, so there’s no way that I’m going to let her be left behind to miss this.

We trudge down the dark, dank lane towards the village, the silence breaks only by our footsteps. The sky lightens very slowly as we make our way through the village, its inky blackness diluting to deepest blue. My hands and feet are freezing except from where I’m holding onto Ginny. Mr. Weasley keeps checking his watch.

We don’t have breath to spare for talking as we begin to climb Stoatshead Hill, stumbling occasionally in hidden rabbit holes, slipping on thick black tuffets of grass. Each breath I take is sharp in my chest and my legs are starting to seize up when, at last, my feet find level ground. Merlin, and I thought that I was in shape!

“Whew,” pants Mr. Weasley, taking off his glasses and wiping them on his sweater. “Well, we’ve made good time — we’ve got ten minutes. . . .”

Hermione comes over the crest of the hill last, clutching a stitch in her side. “Now we just need the Portkey,” says Mr. Weasley, replacing his glasses and squinting around at the ground. “It won’t be big. . . . Come on . . .” We spread out, searching. We have only been at it for a couple of minutes, however, when a shout goes into the still air.

“Over here, Arthur! Over here, son, we’ve got it!”

Two tall figures and one smaller figure are silhouetted against the starry sky on the other side of the hilltop.

“Amos!” says Mr. Weasley, smiling as he strides over to the man who has shouted. The rest of us follow.

Mr. Weasley is shaking hands with a ruddy-faced wizard with a scrubby brown beard, who is holding a moldy-looking old boot in his other hand. Well that’s just a great Portkey, not!

“This is Amos Diggory, everyone,” says Mr. Weasley. My eyes widen though when I see the third person standing there. The very familiar of the fiery blond haired Dumbledore greets me. She has a huge blazing grin on her face, her brown eyes twinkle through her nice summer tan. I swear all Dumbledores have twinkling eyes.

“He works for the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. And I think you know his son, Cedric?” Mr. Weasley continues the introductions.

Cedric Diggory is an extremely handsome boy of around seventeen. He is Captain and Seeker of the Hufflepuff House Quidditch team at Hogwarts. My fellow Chasers Angelina Johnson, and Katie Bell seem to have a thing for him, though I don’t get what its all about.

“Hi,” says Cedric, looking around at them all. Everybody says hi back except Fred and George, who merely nod. They have never quite forgiven Cedric for beating our team, in the first Quidditch match of the previous year.

I didn’t like it either, but there was nothing to be done. “And I think you all know Ariana Dumbledore.” Mr. Weasley finishes. Ariana practically bounces on her way over to my brother crushing him in an elated hug, then to me. She squeezes me so tight that I think that I now have a cracked rib or two.

“I’m so happy to see you all again! Its been far too long! Promise me that we’ll never go this long again Pendragon, just because you don’t live with Kingsley anymore that does not mean that you get to forget all about me.” Ariana says mock threateningly to Luka and me.

“Truthfully Ariana I don’t think that could ever happen…er the forgetting about you part.” I stutter not quite so sure what has me thrown off about her. There is just something that’s changed about her, and I don’t know what it is. She grins at me and pulls me into another tight hug. Ever since becoming friends with her she’s been extremely touchy feely with me.

I’m not exactly against it, but it’s just different for me. Hermione has been the only other girl to really do that to me before, and now I guess there’s Ginny as well. All the rest of my friends happen to be guys. “That’s sweet of you Jame. But that reminds me…” Ariana says switching tactics, and socks my brother hard in the same arm that I had earlier.

“I heard about you’re escape act last night Pendragon. What kind of boneheaded idea was that? You could have gotten yourself killed.” Ariana growls at my brother leveling him with a truly scary glare. I’m glad that I haven’t been on the other side of that glare in a while for, I will have to admit, Ariana Dumbledore is one of the scariest people that I know when angry, right up there behind Mrs. Weasley.

“OW! What is it with you girls today, I happen to bruise easily you know…” Luka cries rubbing at his sore arm and pouting at us.

“Well I can’t help it if you happen to have the constitution of a pixie! Oh wait sorry, that’s an insult to pixies everywhere!” I jab playfully. Luka glares at me crossly, and moves back over to Mr. Weasley who had been giving him a trying look. I turn my attention back onto Ariana.

“So what brings you here and with the Diggorys?” I ask her confused about this new development.

“Well I happen to be friends with Cedric, long story, and Grandfather dropped me off at their house this morning so that I could attend the World Cup Match with them! I’m highly looking forward to the game, and it looks like we can hang out while there as well!” She tells me with a smile. I smile back at her as well.

When I look over at my friends I find Hermione staring at Ariana and me with an odd look on her face. I raise my eyebrow at her, and my best friend merely blushes, and turns around.

“Long walk, Arthur?” Cedric’s father asks.

“Not too bad,” says Mr. Weasley. “We live just on the other side of the village there. You?”

“Had to get up at two, didn’t we, Ced? I tell you, I’ll be glad when he’s got his Apparition test. Still . . . not complaining . . . Quidditch World Cup, wouldn’t miss it for a sackful of Galleons — and the tickets cost about that. Mind you, looks like I got off easy. . . .” Amos Diggory peers good-naturedly around at the three Weasley boys, Harry, Hermione, Ginny, Luka, and me. “All these yours, Arthur?”

“Oh no, only the redheads and Jamie and Luka here, Molly and I are now their guardians,” says Mr. Weasley, pointing out his children and us. “This is Hermione, friend of Ron’s — and Harry, another friend —”

“Merlin’s beard,” says Amos Diggory, his eyes widening. “Harry? Harry Potter?”

“Er — yeah,” says Harry. I wince in sympathy for my friend. It really must get tiresome having people react that way to you all the time. Like I said my brother and I grew up famous and everyone already knows about us.

“Ced’s talked about you, of course,” says Amos Diggory. “Told us all about playing against you last year. . . . I said to him, I said — Ced, that’ll be something to tell your grandchildren, that will. . . . You beat Harry Potter!”

Harry can’t seem to think of any reply to this, so he remains silent. Fred and George are both scowling again. Cedric looks slightly embarrassed.

“Harry fell off his broom, Dad,” he mutters. “I told you . . . it was an accident. . . .”

“Yes, but you didn’t fall off, did you?” roars Amos genially, slapping his son on his back. “Always modest, our Ced, always the gentleman . . . but the best man won, I’m sure Harry’d say the same, wouldn’t you, eh? One falls off his broom, one stays on, you don’t need to be a genius to tell which one’s the better flier!”

“Must be nearly time,” says Mr. Weasley quickly, pulling out his watch again attempting to change the subject. “Do you know whether we’re waiting for any more, Amos?”

“No, the Lovegoods have been there for a week already and the Fawcetts couldn’t get tickets,” says Mr. Diggory. “There aren’t any more of us in this area, are there?”

“Not that I know of,” says Mr. Weasley. “Yes, it’s a minute off. . . . We’d better get ready. . . .” He looks around at Harry and Hermione.

“You just need to touch the Portkey, that’s all, a finger will do —” With difficulty, owing to our bulky backpacks, the twelve of us crowd around the old boot held out by Amos Diggory.

We all stand there, in a tight circle, as a chill breeze sweeps over the hilltop. Nobody speaks. It suddenly occurs to me how odd this would look if a Muggle was to walk up here now . . . twleve people, two of them grown men, clutching this manky old boot in the semidarkness, waiting. . . .

I can’t help but let a chuckle out at that thought. “Three . . .” mutters Mr. Weasley, one eye still on his watch, “two . . . one . . .”

It happens immediately: I feel as though a hook just behind my navel has been suddenly jerked irresistibly forward. My feet leave the ground; I can feel Ginny and Ariana on either side of me, their shoulders banging into mine; we are all speeding forward in a howl of wind and swirling color; my forefinger is stuck to the boot as though it is pulling me magnetically onward and then —

My feet slam into the ground; Ariana staggers into me and she falls on top of me; the Portkey hits the ground near her head with a heavy thud. Ow…

I look up. Mr. Weasley, Mr. Diggory, and Cedric are still standing, though looking very windswept; everybody else is on the ground. That was a terrible ride. I can hear the sounds of Luka vomiting off a little ways.

“Seven past five from Stoatshead Hill,” says a voice.

“I hate travel by Portkey.” I groan letting myself collapse back to the ground. Ariana chuckles from on top of me, before finally deciding to roll off. “Well at least we made it.” I say.


	5. Bagman and Crouch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything you recognize is J.K. Rowling's. Except Jamie, Luka, and Ariana.

Chapter 5- Bagman and Crouch

 

With a groan I push myself to my feet offering a hand to Ariana, helping pull her to her feet as well. She thanks me quietly brushing some dirt off of herself. We have arrived on what appears to be a deserted stretch of misty moor. In front of us is a pair of tired and grumpy-looking wizards, one of whom is holding a large gold watch, the other a thick roll of parchment and a quill. Both are dressed as Muggles, though very inexpertly: The man with the watch is wearing a tweed suit with thigh-length galoshes; his colleague, a kilt and a poncho. Despite my tiredness I manage to snicker at that.

“Morning, Basil,” says Mr. Weasley, picking up the boot and handing it to the kilted wizard, who throws it into a large box of used Portkeys beside him; I can see an old newspaper, an empty drinks can, and a punctured football.

“Hello there, Arthur,” says Basil wearily. “Not on duty, eh? It’s all right for some. . . . We’ve been here all night. . . . You’d better get out of the way, we’ve got a big party coming in from the Black Forest at five-fifteen. Hang on, I’ll find your campsite. . . . Weasley . . . Weasley . . .” He consults his parchment list. “About a quarter of a mile’s walk over there, first field you come to. Site manager’s called Mr. Roberts. Diggory . . . second field . . . ask for Mr. Payne.”

“Thanks, Basil,” says Mr. Weasley, and he beckons everyone to follow him. I make sure to grab hold of Ginny again, for she looks like she’s about to fall back asleep on us again.

We set off across the deserted moor, unable to make out much through the mist. After about twenty minutes, a small stone cottage next to a gate swims into view. Beyond it, I can just make out the ghostly shapes of hundreds and hundreds of tents, rising up the gentle slope of a large field towards a dark wood on the horizon. We say good-bye to the Diggorys, and Ariana (who promises to meet up later) and approach the cottage door.

A man is standing in the doorway, looking out at the tents. I know at a glance that this is the only real Muggle for several acres. When he hears our footsteps, he turns his head to look at us.

“Morning!” says Mr. Weasley brightly.

“Morning,” replies the Muggle.

“Would you be Mr. Roberts?”

“Aye, I would,” said Mr. Roberts. “And who’re you?”

“Weasley — two tents, booked a couple of days ago?”

“Aye,” said Mr. Roberts, consulting a list tacked to the door. “You’ve got a space up by the wood there. Just the one night?”

“That’s it,” said Mr. Weasley.

“You’ll be paying now, then?” said Mr. Roberts.

“Ah — right — certainly —” says Mr. Weasley. He retreats a short distance from the cottage and beckons Harry towards him. “Help me, Harry,” he mutters, pulling a roll of Muggle money from his pocket and starting to peel the notes apart. “This one’s a — a — a ten? Ah yes, I see the little number on it now. . . . So this is a five?”

“A twenty,” Harry corrects him in an undertone, uncomfortably aware of Mr. Roberts trying to catch every word.

“Ah yes, so it is. . . . I don’t know, these little bits of paper . . .”

“You foreign?” says Mr. Roberts as Mr. Weasley returns with the correct notes.

“Foreign?” repeats Mr. Weasley, puzzled.

“You’re not the first one who’s had trouble with money,” says Mr. Roberts, scrutinizing Mr. Weasley closely. “I had two try and pay me with great gold coins the size of hubcaps ten minutes ago.”

“Did you really?” says Mr. Weasley nervously. Mr. Roberts rummages around in a tin for some change.

“Never been this crowded,” he says suddenly, looking out over the misty field again. “Hundreds of pre-bookings. People usually just turn up. . . .”

Oh no this isn’t going to end well, this muggle is asking too many questions.

“Is that right?” says Mr. Weasley, his hand held out for his change, but Mr. Roberts doesn’t give it to him.

“Aye,” he says thoughtfully. “People from all over. Loads of foreigners. And not just foreigners. Weirdos, you know? There’s a bloke walking ’round in a kilt and a poncho.”

“Shouldn’t he?” asks Mr. Weasley anxiously.

“It’s like some sort of . . . I dunno . . . like some sort of rally,” says Mr. Roberts. “They all seem to know each other. Like a big party.”

At that moment, a wizard in plus-fours appears out of thin air next to Mr. Roberts’s front door.

“Obliviate!” he says sharply, pointing his wand at Mr. Roberts. Instantly, Mr. Roberts’s eyes slide out of focus, his brows unknit, and a look of dreamy unconcern falls over his face. I recognize the symptoms of one who has just had his memory modified.

“A map of the campsite for you,” Mr. Roberts says placidly to Mr. Weasley. “And your change.”

“Thanks very much,” says Mr. Weasley.

The wizard in plus-fours accompanies us towards the gate to the campsite. He looks exhausted: His chin is blue with stubble and there are deep purple shadows under his eyes. Once out of earshot of Mr. Roberts, he mutters to Mr. Weasley, “Been having a lot of trouble with him. Needs a Memory Charm ten times a day to keep him happy. And Ludo Bagman’s not helping. Trotting around talking about Bludgers and Quaffles at the top of his voice, not a worry about anti-Muggle security. Blimey, I’ll be glad when this is over. See you later, Arthur.”

He Disapparates. “I thought Mr. Bagman was Head of Magical Games and Sports,” says Ginny, looking surprised. “He should know better than to talk about Bludgers near Muggles, shouldn’t he?”

“He should,” says Mr. Weasley, smiling, and leading us through the gates into the campsite, “but Ludo’s always been a bit . . . well . . . lax about security. You couldn’t wish for a more enthusiastic Head of the sports department though. He played Quidditch for England himself, you know. And he was the best Beater the Wimbourne Wasps ever had.”

We trudge up the misty field between long rows of tents. Most look almost ordinary; their owners have clearly tried to make them as Muggle-like as possible, but have slipped up by adding chimneys, or bellpulls, or weather vanes. However, here and there is a tent so obviously magical that I can hardly be surprised that Mr. Roberts is getting suspicious. Halfway up the field stands an extravagant confection of striped silk like a miniature palace, with several live peacocks tethered at the entrance. A little farther on we pass a tent that has three floors and several turrets; and a short way beyond that is a tent that has a front garden attached, complete with birdbath, sundial, and fountain.

“This is ridiculous. I would think that being wizards and all we’d try and be inconspicuous as possible.” I mutter. Hermione scoffs from beside me.

“The ego of all men is shocking, magical or not.” She says.

“Always the same,” says Mr. Weasley, smiling. “We can’t resist showing off when we get together. Ah, here we are, look, this is us.”

We have reached the very edge of the wood at the top of the field, and here is an empty space, with a small sign hammered into the ground that reads WEEZLY. Can’t even spell the name right.

“Couldn’t have a better spot!” says Mr. Weasley happily. “The field is just on the other side of the wood there, we’re as close as we could be.” He hoists his backpack from his shoulders. “Right,” he says excitedly, “no magic allowed, strictly speaking, not when we’re out in these numbers on Muggle land. We’ll be putting these tents up by hand! Shouldn’t be too difficult. . . . Muggles do it all the time. . . . Here, Harry, where do you reckon we should start?”

One look at the dumbfounded look on Harry’s face tells me that we could be here for a while attempting to put this tent up. However, he and Hermione work out where most of the poles and pegs should go, and though Mr. Weasley is more of a hindrance than a help, because he gets thoroughly overexcited when it comes to using the mallet, we finally manage to erect a pair of shabby two-man tents.

All of us stand back to admire our handiwork. Nobody looking at these tents would guess they belong to wizards, but the trouble is that once Bill, Charlie, and Percy arrived, we will be a party of twelve.

Mr. Weasley drops to his hands and knees and enters the first tent. “We’ll be a bit cramped,” he calls, “but I think we’ll all squeeze in. Come and have a look.”

I bend down, duck under the tent flap, and feel my jaw drop. I have walked into what looks like an old-fashioned, three-room flat, complete with bathroom and kitchen. Oddly enough, it is furnished with crocheted covers on the mismatched chairs and a strong smell of cats. Not the best but it will have to do.

“Well, it’s not for long,” says Mr. Weasley, mopping his bald patch with a handkerchief and peering in at the five bunk beds that stand in the bedroom. “I borrowed this from Perkins at the office. Doesn’t camp much anymore, poor fellow, he’s got lumbago.”

He picks up the dusty kettle and peers inside it. “We’ll need water. . . .”

“There’s a tap marked on this map the Muggle gave us,” says Ron, who has followed us inside the tent and seems completely unimpressed by its extraordinary inner proportions. “It’s on the other side of the field.”

“Well, why don’t you, Harry, Hermione, and Jamie go and get us some water then” — Mr. Weasley hands over the kettle and a couple of saucepans — “and the rest of us will get some wood for a fire?”

“But we’ve got an oven,” says Ron. “Why can’t we just —”

“Ron, anti-Muggle security!” says Mr. Weasley, his face shining with anticipation.    “When real Muggles camp, they cook on fires outdoors. I’ve seen them at it!”

After a quick tour of the girls’ tent, which is slightly smaller than the boys’, though without the smell of cats (take that guys!), Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I set off across the campsite with the kettle and saucepans.

“You’re dad is really into this whole muggle experience.” I tell Ron slightly impressed.

“Tell me about it.” Ron groans in response before muttering a few choice words under his breath.

Now, with the sun newly risen and the mist lifting, we can see the city of tents that stretch in every direction. We make our way slowly through the rows, staring eagerly around. It seems to be only just dawning on Harry how many witches and wizards there are in the world.

Our fellow campers are starting to wake up. First to stir are the families with small children. A tiny boy no older than two is crouched outside a large pyramid-shaped tent, holding a wand and poking happily at a slug in the grass, which is swelling slowly to the size of a salami. As we draw level with him, his mother comes hurrying out of the tent.

“How many times, Kevin? You don’t — touch — Daddy’s — wand — yecchh!”

She has trodden on the giant slug, which bursts. Her scolding carries after us on the still air, mingling with the little boy’s yells — “You bust slug! You bust slug!”

A short way farther on, we see two little witches, barely older than Kevin, who are riding toy broomsticks that rise only high enough for the girls’ toes to skim the dewy grass. A Ministry wizard has already spotted them; as he hurries past Harry, Ron, Hermione, and me he mutters distractedly, “In broad daylight! Parents having a lie-in, I suppose —”

Here and there adult wizards and witches are emerging from their tents and starting to cook breakfast. Some, with furtive looks around them, conjure fires with their wands; others are striking matches with dubious looks on their faces, as though sure this can’t work. Three African wizards sit in serious conversation, all of them wearing long white robes and roasting what looks like a rabbit on a bright purple fire, while a group of middle-aged American witches sit gossiping happily beneath a spangled banner stretched between their tents that reads: THE SALEM WITCHES’ INSTITUTE. I catch snatches of conversation in strange languages from the inside of tents we pass, and though I can’t understand a word, the tone of every single voice is excited.

This is probably one of the most exciting days of my life! I can’t wait for the match!  “Er — is it my eyes, or has everything gone green?” says Ron.

It isn’t just Ron’s eyes. We have walked into a patch of tents that are all covered with a thick growth of shamrocks, so that it looks as though small, oddly shaped hillocks have sprouted out of the earth. Grinning faces can be seen under those that have their flaps open. Then, from behind us, we hear our names.

“Harry! Ron! Jamie! Hermione!”

It is Seamus Finnigan, our fellow Gryffindor fourth year. He is sitting in front of his own shamrock-covered tent, with a sandy-haired woman who has to be his mother, and his best friend, Dean Thomas, also of Gryffindor.

“Like the decorations?” says Seamus, grinning. “The Ministry’s not too happy.”

“Ah, why shouldn’t we show our colors?” says Mrs. Finnigan. “You should see what the Bulgarians have got dangling all over their tents. You’ll be supporting Ireland, of course?” she adds, eyeing us beadily.

When we have assured her that we are indeed supporting Ireland, we set off again, though, as I say, “Like we’d say anything else surrounded by that lot.”

“I wonder what the Bulgarians have got dangling all over their tents?” says Hermione.

“Let’s go and have a look,” says Harry, pointing to a large patch of tents upfield, where the Bulgarian flag — white, green, and red — is fluttering in the breeze.

The tents here are not bedecked with plant life, but each and every one of them has the same poster attached to it, a poster of a very surly face with heavy black eyebrows. The picture is, of course, moving, but all it does is blink and scowl. I know exactly who that person is.

“Krum,” says Ron quietly.

“What?” asks Hermione.

“Krum!” I explain. “Viktor Krum, the Bulgarian Seeker!”

“He looks really grumpy,” responds Hermione, looking around at the many Krums blinking and scowling at us.

“Well that he is.” I give her.

“‘Really grumpy’?” Ron raises his eyes to the heavens. “Who cares what he looks like? He’s unbelievable. He’s really young too. Only just eighteen or something. He’s a genius, you wait until tonight, you’ll see.”

There is already a small queue for the tap in the corner of the field. Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I join it, right behind a pair of men who are having a heated argument. One of them is a very old wizard who is wearing a long flowery nightgown. The other is clearly a Ministry wizard; he is holding out a pair of pinstriped trousers and almost crying with exasperation.

“Just put them on, Archie, there’s a good chap. You can’t walk around like that, the Muggle at the gate’s already getting suspicious —”

“I bought this in a Muggle shop,” says the old wizard stubbornly. “Muggles wear them.”

“Muggle women wear them, Archie, not the men, they wear these,” says the Ministry wizard, and he brandishes the pinstriped trousers. There’s a chuckle from behind me and Ariana pops up on my shoulder.

“You’d think that adults would be smarter about all the Muggle stuff wouldn’t you.” She says amusedly. I grin at her not bothering to shake her arm off its perch on my shoulder.

“I’m not putting them on,” says old Archie in indignation. “I like a healthy breeze ’round my privates, thanks.”

Hermione, Ariana, and I are overcome with such a strong fit of the giggles at this point that we have to duck out of the queue and only return when Archie has collected his water and moved away. Ariana bids us farewell when her pot has been filled to the brim.

Walking more slowly now, because of the weight of the water, we make our way back through the campsite. Here and there, we see more familiar faces: other Hogwarts students with their families. Oliver Wood, the old Captain of Harry’s and my House Quidditch team, who has just left Hogwarts, drags Harry and I over to his parents’ tent to introduce us, and told us excitedly that he has just been signed to the Puddlemere United reserve team.

“That’s great Oliver! They’re the best team in the business.” I congratulate him thankful that my team has gotten another great Keeper on it.

Next we are hailed by Ernie Macmillan, a Hufflepuff fourth year, and a little farther on we see Cho Chang, a very pretty girl who plays Seeker on the Ravenclaw team. She waves and smiled at Harry, who slops quite a lot of water down his front as he waves back. I can’t stop laughing at his misfortune. More to stop Ron and I from smirking than anything, Harry hurriedly points out a large group of teenagers whom we have never seen before.

“Who d’you reckon they are?” he says. “They don’t go to Hogwarts, do they?”

“’Spect they go to some foreign school,” says Ron. “I know there are others. Never met anyone who went to one, though. Bill had a penfriend at a school in Brazil . . . this was years and years ago . . . and he wanted to go on an exchange trip but Mum and Dad couldn’t afford it. His penfriend got all offended when he said he wasn’t going and sent him a cursed hat. It made his ears shrivel up.”

“A lot of foreign schools are good though.” I tell Harry attempting to get back on subject.

“You’ve been ages,” says George when we finally get back to the Weasleys’ tents.

“Met a few people,” I say, setting the water down. “You not got that fire started yet?”

“Dad’s having fun with the matches,” says Fred.

Mr. Weasley is in fact having no success at all in lighting the fire, but it isn’t for lack of trying. Splintered matches litter the ground around him, but he looks as though he is having the time of his life.

“Oops!” he cries as he manages to light a match and promptly drops it in surprise.

“Come here, Mr. Weasley,” says Hermione kindly, taking the box from him, and showing him how to do it properly. I watch with wide eyes at the process. Hermione smiles when she realizes how intrigued I am.

“I forget that you know nothing of the Muggle world Jamie. Take Muggle Studies.” She tells me ushering me closer to them.

At last we get the fire lit, though it is at least another hour before it is hot enough to cook anything. There is plenty to watch while we wait, however. Our tent seems to be pitched right alongside a kind of thoroughfare to the field, and Ministry members keep hurrying up and down it, greeting Mr. Weasley cordially as we pass. Mr. Weasley keeps up a running commentary, mainly for Harry’s and Hermione’s benefit; his own children, Luka and I, know too much about the Ministry to be greatly interested.

“That was Cuthbert Mockridge, Head of the Goblin Liaison Office. . . . Here comes Gilbert Wimple; he’s with the Committee on Experimental Charms; he’s had those horns for a while now. . . . Hello, Arnie . . . Arnold Peasegood, he’s an Obliviator — member of the Accidental Magic Reversal Squad, you know. . . . and that’s Bode and Croaker . . . they’re Unspeakables. . . .”

“They’re what?” Harry and Hermione ask.

“From the Department of Mysteries, top secret, no idea what they get up to. . . .”

At last, the fire is ready, and we have just started cooking eggs and sausages when Bill, Charlie, and Percy come strolling out of the woods towards us. Ugh, I really could have done with some time without Percy.

“Just Apparated, Dad,” says Percy loudly. “Ah, excellent, lunch!”

We are halfway through our plates of eggs and sausages when Mr. Weasley jumps to his feet, waving and grinning at a man who is striding toward us. “Aha!” he says. “The man of the moment! Ludo!”

Ludo Bagman is easily the most noticeable person I have seen so far, even including old Archie in his flowered nightdress. He is wearing long Quidditch robes in thick horizontal stripes of bright yellow and black. An enormous picture of a wasp is splashed across his chest. He has the look of a powerfully built man gone slightly to seed; the robes are stretched tightly across a large belly he surely did not have in the days when he had played Quidditch for England. His nose is squashed (probably broken by a stray Bludger), but his round blue eyes, short blond hair, and rosy complexion makes him look like a very overgrown schoolboy.

“Someone is stuck reliving his glory days.” Luka whispers to me, and I nod my head slightly in agreement. No need to draw his attention on us.

“Ahoy there!” Bagman calls happily. He is walking as though he has springs attached to the balls of his feet and is plainly in a state of wild excitement.

“Arthur, old man,” he puffs as he reaches the campfire, “what a day, eh? What a day! Could we have asked for more perfect weather? A cloudless night coming . . . and hardly a hiccough in the arrangements. . . . Not much for me to do!”

Behind him, a group of haggard-looking Ministry wizards rush past, pointing at the distant evidence of some sort of a magical fire that is sending violet sparks twenty feet into the air. He really is a special sort of ignorant.

Percy hurries forward with his hand outstretched. Apparently his disapproval of the way Ludo Bagman runs his department does not prevent him from wanting to make a good impression.

“Ah — yes,” says Mr. Weasley, grinning, “this is my son Percy. He’s just started at the Ministry — and this is Fred — no, George, sorry — that’s Fred — Bill, Charlie, Ron — my daughter, Ginny — Jamie and Luka Pendragon who I’m guardian to— and Ron’s friends, Hermione Granger and Harry Potter.”

Bagman does the smallest of double takes when he hears Luka’s and my name, but even more so at Harry’s name, and his eyes perform the familiar flick upward to the scar on Harry’s forehead.

“Everyone,” Mr. Weasley continues, “this is Ludo Bagman, you know who he is, it’s thanks to him we’ve got such good tickets —”

Bagman beams and waves his hand as if to say it had been nothing. “Fancy a flutter on the match, Arthur?” he says eagerly, jingling what seems to be a large amount of gold in the pockets of his yellow-and-black robes. “I’ve already got Roddy Pontner betting me Bulgaria will score first — I offered him nice odds, considering Ireland’s front three are the strongest I’ve seen in years — and little Agatha Timms has put up half shares in her eel farm on a week-long match.”

Suddenly I’m pulled back by two sets of hands. I look at Fred and George questioningly. “You brought coin with you correct?” Fred asks me in a hushed voice. I nod my head slowly in agreement.

“Well we’re going to place a bet and we need some help. Just think, when we win of all the pranking products that we can make.” George tells me grinning. I sigh and run my hand through my hair. I had taken quite a bit of money with me for souvenirs.

“How much?” I ask them. Fred and George share a quick look.

“Fifteen galleons.” They say together. I level a long stare at them then sigh. I dig down into my pocket for my money bag. I open it, and count out fifteen out of the twenty galleons that I have. I place them into Fred’s hand.

“You better win.” I tell them seriously, before turning back and paying attention to the conversation again.

“Oh . . . go on then,” says Mr. Weasley. “Let’s see . . . a Galleon on Ireland to win?”

“A Galleon?” Ludo Bagman looks slightly disappointed, but recovers himself. “Very well, very well . . . any other takers?”

“They’re a bit young to be gambling,” says Mr. Weasley. “Molly wouldn’t like —”

“We’ll bet thirty-seven Galleons, fifteen Sickles, three Knuts,” says Fred as he and George quickly pool all their money and mine, “that Ireland wins — but Viktor Krum gets the Snitch. Oh and we’ll throw in a fake wand.”

Oh boy, those idiots better know what they’re doing. “You don’t want to go showing Mr. Bagman rubbish like that —” Percy hisses, but Bagman doesn’t seem to think the wand is rubbish at all; on the contrary, his boyish face shines with excitement as he takes it from Fred, and when the wand gives a loud squawk and turns into a rubber chicken, Bagman roars with laughter.

“Excellent! I haven’t seen one that convincing in years! I’d pay five Galleons for that!” Percy freezes in an attitude of stunned disapproval.

“Boys,” says Mr. Weasley under his breath, “I don’t want you betting. . . . That’s all your savings plus more, where did you get it. . . . Your mother —”

“Don’t be a spoilsport, Arthur!” booms Ludo Bagman, rattling his pockets excitedly. “They’re old enough to know what they want! You reckon Ireland will win but Krum’ll get the Snitch? Not a chance, boys, not a chance. . . . I’ll give you excellent odds on that one. . . . We’ll add five Galleons for the funny wand, then, shall we. . . .”

Mr. Weasley looks on helplessly as Ludo Bagman whips out a notebook and quill and begins jotting down the twins’ names.

“Cheers,” says George, taking the slip of parchment Bagman hands him and tucking it away carefully. Bagman turns most cheerfully back to Mr. Weasley.

“Couldn’t do me a brew, I suppose? I’m keeping an eye out for Barty Crouch. My Bulgarian opposite number’s making difficulties, and I can’t understand a word he’s saying. Barty’ll be able to sort it out. He speaks about a hundred and fifty languages.”

“Mr. Crouch?” says Percy, suddenly abandoning his look of poker-stiff disapproval and positively writhing with excitement. “He speaks over two hundred! Mermish and Gobbledegook and Troll . . .”

“Anyone can speak Troll,” says Fred dismissively. “All you have to do is point and grunt.” I snicker at that, he’s not wrong you know.

Percy throws Fred an extremely nasty look and stokes the fire vigorously to bring the kettle back to the boil.

“Any news of Bertha Jorkins yet, Ludo?” Mr. Weasley asks as Bagman settles himself down on the grass beside us all.

“Not a dicky bird,” says Bagman comfortably. “But she’ll turn up. Poor old Bertha . . . memory like a leaky cauldron and no sense of direction. Lost, you take my word for it. She’ll wander back into the office sometime in October, thinking it’s still July.”

“You don’t think it might be time to send someone to look for her?” Mr. Weasley suggests tentatively as Percy hands Bagman his tea. I lean in closer to Luka and tap his leg to get his attention.

“When we become of age, you’re dealing with all the politics. I want nothing to do with it.” I whisper firmly. Luka gives me a hard look but nods his head nonetheless. I don’t mistake the look of excitement in his eye. If either of the last Pendragons is made for politics and wizarding bull its Luka.

“Barty Crouch keeps saying that,” says Bagman, his round eyes widening innocently, “but we really can’t spare anyone at the moment. Oh — talk of the devil! Barty!”

A wizard has just Apparated at our fireside, and he can not have made more of a contrast with Ludo Bagman, sprawled on the grass in his old Wasp robes. Barty Crouch is a stiff, upright, elderly man, dressed in an impeccably crisp suit and tie. The parting in his short gray hair is almost unnaturally straight, and his narrow toothbrush mustache looks as though he trims it using a slide rule. His shoes are very highly polished. I can now see at once why Percy idolizes him.

I wouldn’t be surprised if there is a poster of him hanging up in his room. Percy is a great believer in rigidly following rules, and Mr. Crouch has complied with the rule about Muggle dressing so thoroughly that he could pass for a bank manager. At least, that’s what Harry whispers to us with a firm nod of approval from Hermione.

“Pull up a bit of grass, Barty,” says Ludo brightly, patting the ground beside him.

“No thank you, Ludo,” says Crouch, and there is a bite of impatience in his voice. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere. The Bulgarians are insisting we add another twelve seats to the Top Box.”

“Oh is that what they’re after?” says Bagman. “I thought the chap was asking to borrow a pair of tweezers. Bit of a strong accent.” Okay, he’s incredibly lax on practically everything, but I have to say that I like Bagman very much.

“Mr. Crouch!” says Percy breathlessly, sunk into a kind of half-bow that makes him look like a hunchback. “Would you like a cup of tea?”

“Oh,” says Mr. Crouch, looking over at Percy in mild surprise. “Yes — thank you, Weatherby.”

Fred and George choke into their own cups, while I start coughing violently, my tea having gone down the wrong pipe. Percy, very pink around the ears, busies himself with the kettle. Wow he doesn’t even know his last name!

“Oh and I’ve been wanting a word with you too, Arthur,” says Mr. Crouch, his sharp eyes falling upon Mr. Weasley. “Ali Bashir’s on the warpath. He wants a word with you about your embargo on flying carpets.”

Mr. Weasley heaves a deep sigh. “I sent him an owl about that just last week. If I’ve told him once I’ve told him a hundred times: Carpets are defined as a Muggle Artifact by the Registry of Proscribed Charmable Objects, but will he listen?”

“I doubt it,” says Mr. Crouch, accepting a cup from Percy. “He’s desperate to export here.”

Okay there is no way that I’m getting a job at the ministry when I’m older. There’s too much diplomacy, politics, and head bashing to deal with there. Not a place for a restless Jamie to flourish no siree!

“Well, they’ll never replace brooms in Britain, will they?” says Bagman.

“Ali thinks there’s a niche in the market for a family vehicle,” says Mr. Crouch. “I remember my grandfather had an Axminster that could seat twelve — but that was before carpets were banned, of course.”

He speaks as though he wants to leave nobody in any doubt that all his ancestors had abided strictly by the law.

“So, been keeping busy, Barty?” asks Bagman breezily.

“Fairly,” says Mr. Crouch dryly. “Organizing Portkeys across five continents is no mean feat, Ludo.”

“I expect you’ll both be glad when this is over?” says Mr. Weasley. Ludo Bagman looks shocked.

“Glad! Don’t know when I’ve had more fun. . . . Still, it’s not as though we haven’t got anything to look forward to, eh, Barty? Eh? Plenty left to organize, eh?”

Mr. Crouch raises his eyebrows at Bagman.

“We agreed not to make the announcement until all the details —”

“Oh details!” says Bagman, waving the word away like a cloud of midges. “They’ve signed, haven’t they? They’ve agreed, haven’t they? I bet you anything these kids’ll know soon enough anyway. I mean, it’s happening at Hogwarts —” What’s happening at Hogwarts?

“Ludo, we need to meet the Bulgarians, you know,” snaps Mr. Crouch sharply, cutting Bagman’s remarks short. “Thank you for the tea, Weatherby.”

He pushes his undrunk tea back at Percy and waits for Ludo to rise; Bagman struggles to his feet, swigging down the last of his tea, the gold in his pockets chinking merrily.

“See you all later!” he says. “You’ll be up in the Top Box with me — I’m commentating!” He waves, Barty Crouch nods curtly, and both of them Disapparate. Well I’m going to miss Bagman’s interesting conversation.

“What’s happening at Hogwarts, Dad?” says Fred at once. “What were they talking about?”

“You’ll find out soon enough,” says Mr. Weasley, smiling.

“It’s classified information, until such time as the Ministry decides to release it,” says Percy stiffly. “Mr. Crouch was quite right not to disclose it.” I immediately glower at him.

“Oh shut up, Weatherby,” says Fred. I laugh out loud at that only blushing and looking repentant when Mr. Weasley sends a stern look my way.

A sense of excitement rises like a palpable cloud over the campsite as the afternoon wears on. By dusk, the still summer air itself seems to be quivering with anticipation, and as darkness spreads like a curtain over the thousands of waiting wizards, the last vestiges of pretense disappear: The Ministry seems to have bowed to the inevitable and stopped fighting the signs of blatant magic now breaking out everywhere.

My excitement level is through the roof right now. “Honestly Jamie its like you’ve drunk an entire pot of coffee!” Hermione exclaims. I just tilt my head at her blankly and she sighs in defeat, while Ginny giggles at us.

Salesmen are Apparating every few feet, carrying trays and pushing carts full of extraordinary merchandise. There are luminous rosettes — green for Ireland, red for Bulgaria — which are squealing the names of the players, pointed green hats bedecked with dancing shamrocks, Bulgarian scarves adorned with lions that really roar, flags from both countries that play their national anthems as they are waved; there are tiny models of Firebolts that really fly, and collectible figures of famous players, which stroll across the palm of your hand, preening themselves.

I am so glad that I have money still in which to buy stuff! “Been saving my pocket money all summer for this,” Ron tells Harry, Hermione, and I as we stroll through the salesmen, buying souvenirs. Though Ron purchases a dancing shamrock hat and a large green rosette, he also buys a small figure of Viktor Krum, the Bulgarian Seeker. The miniature Krum walks backward and forward over Ron’s hand, scowling up at the green rosette above him.

I buy dancing Shamrock hats for Harry, Hermione, and Ginny as well so that we each have something to commemorate this event.

“Wow, look at these!” says Harry, hurrying over to a cart piled high with what looks like brass binoculars, except that they are covered with all sorts of weird knobs and dials.

“Omnioculars,” says the saleswizard eagerly. “You can replay action . . . slow everything down . . . and they flash up a play-by-play breakdown if you need it. Bargain — ten Galleons each.”

Whoa those are wicked, but I don’t have enough money, and Luka gives me an ‘over my cold dead body’ look about borrowing from him, which looks less malevolent because of the dancing hat atop his head.

“Wish I hadn’t bought this now,” says Ron, gesturing at his dancing shamrock hat and gazing longingly at the Omnioculars.

“Four pairs,” says Harry firmly to the wizard.

“No — don’t bother,” says Ron, going red. He is always touchy about the fact that Harry, who has inherited a small fortune from his parents, has much more money than he does.

“Harry I have my own money. You don’t have to do this.” I tell him.

“You won’t be getting anything for Christmas,” Harry tells Ron, thrusting Omnioculars into his Hermione’s, and my hands. “For about ten years, mind. And Jamie if you want pay me back later.” Harry says.

“Fair enough,” says Ron, grinning. I glower at my friend.

“Expect reimbursement later.” I tell him sourly.

“Oooh, thanks, Harry,” says Hermione. “And I’ll get us some programs, look —”

Our money bags considerably lighter, we go back to the tents. Bill, and Charlie are sporting green rosettes too, and Mr. Weasley is carrying an Irish flag. Fred and George have no souvenirs as they have given Bagman all their gold and a lot of mine.

And then a deep, booming gong sounds somewhere beyond the woods, and at once, green and red lanterns blaze into life in the trees, lighting a path to the field.

“It’s time!” says Mr. Weasley, looking as excited as any of them. “Come on, let’s go!”

I literally start bouncing with excitement grabbing both Ginny and Hermione by the hand and bouncing along the path behind the boys and Mr. Weasley. This is going to be one heck of a game I can just feel it!


	6. The Quidditch World Cup

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything you recognize is J.K. Rowling's. Except Jamie, Luka, and Ariana.

Chapter 6- The Quidditch World Cup

 

Clutching our purchases, Mr. Weasley in the lead, we all hurry into the wood, following the lantern-lit trail. We can hear the sounds of thousands of people moving around us, shouts and laughter, snatches of singing. The atmosphere of feverish excitement is highly infectious; I can’t stop grinning and bouncing, the girls beside me doing the same. We walk through the wood for twenty minutes, talking and joking loudly, until at last we emerge on the other side and find ourselves in the shadow of a gigantic stadium. Though I can see only a fraction of the immense gold walls surrounding the field, I can tell that ten cathedrals would fit comfortably inside it.

This is going to be epic, there’s no doubt about it! “Seats a hundred thousand,” says Mr. Weasley, spotting the awestruck look on my face. “Ministry task force of five hundred have been working on it all year. Muggle Repelling Charms on every inch of it. Every time Muggles have got anywhere near here all year, they’ve suddenly remembered urgent appointments and had to dash away again . . . bless them,” he adds fondly, leading the way towards the nearest entrance, which is already surrounded by a swarm of shouting witches and wizards.

“Prime seats!” says the Ministry witch at the entrance when she checks our tickets. “Top Box! Straight upstairs, Arthur, and as high as you can go.” Oh I think that I might burst, we have some of the best seats in the house! Luka rolls his eyes at my excitement, but I can tell from the spark in his eyes that he’s thrilled as well.

“Calm down Jamie! I think that you’ll start vibrating through the floor any minute.” Hermione tells me attempting to force me still. Ginny just laughs evilly and starts jumping to get me going again, mind you that it doesn’t take much in order to do so.

“Let her be Hermione this is thrilling!” Harry exclaims and Ron nods his head enthusiastically.

The stairs into the stadium are carpeted in rich purple. We clamber upwards with the rest of the crowd, which slowly filters away through doors into the stands to our left and right. Mr. Weasley’s party keeps climbing, and at last we reach the top of the staircase and find ourselves in a small box, set at the highest point of the stadium and situated exactly halfway between the golden goalposts. About twenty purple-and-gilt chairs stand in two rows here, and I, file into the front seats with the Weasleys, looking down upon a scene the likes of which I could never have imagined.

“This must be what its like in heaven.” I mutter softly while Hermione shoots me a scandalize look. Fred and George burst into laughter at my comment but they look just as in awe as I do.

A hundred thousand witches and wizards are taking their places in the seats, which rise in levels around the long oval field. Everything is suffused with a mysterious golden light, which seems to come from the stadium itself. The field looks smooth as velvet from our lofty position. At either end of the field stands three goal hoops, fifty feet high; right opposite us, almost at my eye level, is a gigantic blackboard. Gold writing keeps dashing across it as though an invisible giant’s hand is scrawling upon the blackboard and then wiping it off again; watching it, we see that it is flashing advertisements across the field.

The Bluebottle: A Broom for All the Family — Safe, Reliable, and with Built-in Anti-Burglar Buzzer . . . Mrs. Skower’s All-Purpose Magical Mess Remover: No Pain, No Stain! . . . Gladrags Wizardwear — London, Paris, Hogsmeade . . .

I tear my eyes away from the sign and look over my shoulder to see who else is sharing the box with us. So far it is empty, except for a tiny creature sitting in the second from last seat at the end of the row behind us. The creature, whose legs are so short they stick out in front of it on the chair, is wearing a tea towel draped like a toga, and it has its face hidden in its hands. Yet those long, batlike ears are oddly familiar. . . .

That house elf is not Dobby. “Dobby?” says Harry incredulously.

The tiny creature looks up and stretches its fingers, revealing enormous brown eyes and a nose the exact size and shape of a large tomato. It isn’t Dobby — it is, however, unmistakably a house-elf, as Harry’s friend Dobby is.

Harry had set Dobby free from his old owners, the Malfoy family. “Did sir just call me Dobby?” squeaks the elf curiously from between its fingers. Its voice is higher even than Dobby’s had been, a teeny, quivering squeak of a voice, and I suspect — though it is very hard to tell with a house-elf — that this one might just be female.  Ron and Hermione spun around in their seats to look. Though they have heard a lot about Dobby from Harry, they have never actually met him. I have and the elf is a very good person. Even Mr. Weasley looks around in interest.

“Sorry,” Harry tells the elf, “I just thought you were someone I knew.”

“But I knows Dobby too, sir!” squeaks the elf. She is shielding her face, as though blinded by light, though the Top Box is not brightly lit. “My name is Winky, sir — and you, sir —” Her dark brown eyes widen to the size of side plates as they rest upon Harry’s scar. “You is surely Harry Potter!”

“Yeah, I am,” says Harry.

“But Dobby talks of you all the time, sir!” she says, lowering her hands very slightly and looking awestruck.

“How is he?” asks Harry. “How’s freedom suiting him?” I bite my lip curious about that as well. I know a fair amount about elves and a lot of them have a hard time adjusting after being broken free from slavery.

“Ah, sir,” says Winky, shaking her head, “ah sir, meaning no disrespect, sir, but I is not sure you did Dobby a favor, sir, when you is setting him free.”

“Why?” says Harry, taken aback. “What’s wrong with him?”

“Freedom is going to Dobby’s head, sir,” says Winky sadly. “Ideas above his station, sir. Can’t get another position, sir.”

“Why not?” says Harry. Winky lowers her voice by a half-octave and whispers, “He is wanting paying for his work, sir.”

“Paying?” says Harry blankly. “Well — why shouldn’t he be paid?” Winky looks quite horrified at the idea and closes her fingers slightly so that her face is half-hidden again.

“Harry we’re talking about hundreds of years of conditioning.” I tell him softly.

“House-elves is not paid, sir!” she says in a muffled squeak. “No, no, no. I says to Dobby, I says, go find yourself a nice family and settle down, Dobby. He is getting up to all sorts of high jinks, sir, what is unbecoming to a house-elf. You goes racketing around like this, Dobby, I says, and next thing I hear you’s up in front of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, like some common goblin.”

“Well, it’s about time he had a bit of fun,” says Harry. I wince Harry really doesn’t understand the world we live in; neither does Hermione by the look on her face. I can’t blame them though, for I don’t like it as well.

“House-elves is not supposed to have fun, Harry Potter,” says Winky firmly, from behind her hands. “House-elves does what they is told. I is not liking heights at all, Harry Potter” — she glances towards the edge of the box and gulps — “but my master sends me to the Top Box and I comes, sir.”

“Why’s he sent you up here, if he knows you don’t like heights?” asks Harry, frowning.

“Master — master wants me to save him a seat, Harry Potter. He is very busy,” says Winky, tilting her head towards the empty space beside her. “Winky is wishing she is back in master’s tent, Harry Potter, but Winky does what she is told. Winky is a good house-elf.”

She gives the edge of the box another frightened look and hides her eyes completely again. We all turn back around.

“So that’s a house-elf?” Ron mutters. “Weird things, aren’t they?”

“Dobby was weirder,” says Harry fervently. Ron pulls out his Omnioculars and starts testing them, staring down into the crowd on the other side of the stadium.

“Wild!” he says, twiddling the replay knob on the side. “I can make that old bloke down there pick his nose again . . . and again . . . and again . . .” I make a face at that.

Hermione, meanwhile, is skimming eagerly through her velvet-covered, tasseled program. “‘A display from the team mascots will precede the match,’” she reads aloud.

“Oh that’s always worth watching,” says Mr. Weasley. “National teams bring creatures from their native land, you know, to put on a bit of a show.”

Ginny pulls on my sleeve and I turn to look at her. She is staring around at the stadium in awe. “I want to be here someday Jamie. I want to play in a stadium this size, and show everyone what I can do… do you think that I could?” She asks me softly. I turn my gaze to the redheaded girl next to me and smile softly at the worried and insecure look on her face.

Ginny and I had spent a lot of time with each other over the summer and part of that had been flying and practicing Quidditch when her brothers were busy. They all think that she’s a little girl who has no flying talent whatsoever, but I happen to know differently.

She’s good, really good for her age and experience level. If the two of us played together on Gryffindor then our team would advance further than ever before. That is as soon as some of the other Chasers graduate.

“Don’t worry Gin. I will be coming here one of these days in the future cheering you on, you’re a great flyer and if you continue to better, then it will be a pleasure to fly with you in a few years.” I tell her. The smile that breaks out on her face is enough to make me smile back.

“You’re not half bad yourself Jamie. You might have a shot as well.” Ginny tells me leaning forward in her seat. I bite my lower lip and consider the possibilities.

“I don’t know, maybe. I’m not sure what I want to do with my life just yet.” I tell her.

The box fills gradually around us over the next half hour. Mr. Weasley keeps shaking hands with people who are obviously very important wizards. Percy jumps to his feet so often that he looks as though he is trying to sit on a hedgehog. When Cornelius Fudge, the Minister of Magic himself, arrives, Percy bows so low that his glasses fall off and shatter. Highly embarrassed, he repairs them with his wand and thereafter remains in his seat, throwing jealous looks at Harry, whom Cornelius Fudge greets like an old friend. They have met before, and Fudge shakes Harry’s hand in a fatherly fashion, asks how he is, and introduces him to the wizards on either side of him.

I can’t help but feel a little bad for Harry. I’ve never liked the Minister that much, and Harry seems to have become his Golden Boy.

“Harry Potter, you know,” he tells the Bulgarian minister loudly, who is wearing splendid robes of black velvet trimmed with gold and doesn’t seem to understand a word of English. “Harry Potter . . . oh come on now, you know who he is . . . the boy who survived You-Know-Who . . . you do know who he is —”

The Bulgarian wizard suddenly spots Harry’s scar and starts gabbling loudly and excitedly, pointing at it. I am so glad that I am not the center of all this scrutiny. “Knew we’d get there in the end,” says Fudge wearily to Harry. “I’m no great shakes at languages; I need Barty Crouch for this sort of thing. Ah, I see his house-elf’s saving him a seat. . . . Good job too, these Bulgarian blighters have been trying to cadge all the best places . . . ah, and here’s Lucius!”

Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I turn quickly. I knew this day was going far too well! Edging along the second row to three still-empty seats right behind Mr. Weasley are none other than Dobby the house-elf’s former owners: Lucius Malfoy; his son, Draco; and a woman I suppose must be Draco’s mother.

Harry and Draco Malfoy have been enemies ever since their very first journey to Hogwarts. So as any good friend he is my enemy as well. A pale boy with a pointed face and white-blond hair, Draco greatly resembles his father. His mother is blonde too; tall and slim, she would be nice-looking if she isn’t wearing a look that suggests there is a nasty smell under her nose.

Did I mention that I hate pureblood elitists? “Ah, Fudge,” says Mr. Malfoy, holding out his hand as he reaches the Minister of Magic. “How are you? I don’t think you’ve met my wife, Narcissa? Or our son, Draco?”

“How do you do, how do you do?” says Fudge, smiling and bowing to Mrs. Malfoy. “And allow me to introduce you to Mr. Oblansk — Obalonsk — Mr. — well, he’s the Bulgarian Minister of Magic, and he can’t understand a word I’m saying anyway, so never mind. And let’s see who else — you know Arthur Weasley, I daresay?”

Oh this is going to be good. I’ll sit back at watch the hexes fly. It is a tense moment. Mr. Weasley and Mr. Malfoy look at each other and Harry vividly recalls the last time they had come face-to-face: It had been in Flourish and Blotts bookshop, and they had had a fight. Mr. Malfoy’s cold gray eyes sweep over Mr. Weasley, and then up and down the row.

“Good lord, Arthur,” he says softly. “What did you have to sell to get seats in the Top Box? Surely your house wouldn’t have fetched this much?” I can’t help but growl lowly at that. His gaze fixes on Luka and I. “Ah, I see. You’re siphoning away the Pendragon fortune for yourself.” Harry and Mr. Weasley have to hold back Luka, and I for attempting to get out of our seats to attack him.

Fudge, who isn’t listening, says, “Lucius has just given a very generous contribution to St. Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, Arthur. He’s here as my guest.” Still not a good enough reason to share such an occasion with the Malfoy family is you ask me.

“How — how nice,” says Mr. Weasley, with a very strained smile.

Mr. Malfoy’s eyes have returned to Hermione, who goes slightly pink, but stares determinedly back at him. I wrap my arm protectively around her, glaring at the man. I know exactly what is making Mr. Malfoy’s lip curl like that. The Malfoys pride themselves on being purebloods; in other words, they consider anyone of Muggle descent, like Hermione, second-class. However, under the gaze of the Minister of Magic, Mr. Malfoy doesn’t dare say anything. He nods sneeringly to Mr. Weasley and continues down the line to his seats. Draco shoots Harry, Ron, Hermione, and me, one contemptuous look, then settles himself between his mother and father.

Good I don’t want to deal with that smarmy weasel even more than he wants to see us. “Slimy gits,” Ron mutters as we turn to face the field again. Next moment, Ludo Bagman charges into the box.

“Everyone ready?” he says, his round face gleaming like a great, excited Edam. “Minister — ready to go?”

“Ready when you are, Ludo,” says Fudge comfortably. Oh this is going to be good! I start bouncing in my seat again, a large grin settling on my face.

Ludo whips out his wand, directs it at his own throat, and says “Sonorus!” and then speaks over the roar of sound that is now filling the packed stadium; his voice echoes over us, booming into every corner of the stands.

“Ladies and gentlemen . . . welcome! Welcome to the final of the four hundred and twenty-second Quidditch World Cup!”

The spectators scream and clap. Thousands of flags wave, adding their discordant national anthems to the racket. The huge blackboard opposite us was wiped clear of its last message (Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor Beans — A Risk with Every Mouthful!) and now shows BULGARIA: 0, IRELAND: 0.

“And now, without further ado, allow me to introduce . . . the Bulgarian National Team Mascots!”

The right-hand side of the stands, which is a solid block of scarlet, roars its approval.

“I wonder what they’ve brought,” says Mr. Weasley, leaning forward in his seat.  “Aaah!” He suddenly whips off his glasses and polishes them hurriedly on his robes. “Veela!”

“What are veel — ?” Harry starts. Ugh! This is going to be insane. I hate Bulgaria now. I grab a firm hold on my brother and he gives me a nod.

But a hundred veela are now gliding out onto the field, and Harry’s question is answered for him. Veela are women . . . the most beautiful women I have ever seen . . . except that they aren’t — they can’t be — human. Their skin shines moon-bright, and their white-gold hair fans out behind them without wind . . . and then the music starts. I keep my firm grip on Luka as the magic starts to take over.

The veela dance and as much as they’re beautiful I know that behind the beauty lurks a danger that not every wizard can face. Luckily women aren’t affected by veelas like men are.

“Harry, what are you doing?” says Hermione. I glance over at her. She’s struggling to understand what’s happening with Ron and Harry.

The music stops. Harry is standing up, and one of his legs is resting on the wall of the box. Next to him, Ron is frozen in an attitude that looks as though he was about to dive from a springboard.

Angry yells are filling the stadium. The crowd doesn’t want the veela to go. Ugh, men. Ron, meanwhile, is absentmindedly shredding the shamrocks on his hat. Mr. Weasley, smiling slightly, leans over to Ron and tugs the hat out of his hands.

“You’ll be wanting that,” he says, “once Ireland have had their say.”

“Huh?” says Ron, staring openmouthed at the veela, who have now lined up along one side of the field.

“He says that you look like a right foul git.” I supply helpfully to my intoxicated friend.

Hermione makes a loud tutting noise, and Ginny rolls her eyes at the boys. Mione reaches up and pulls Harry back into his seat. “Honestly!” she says.

“And now,” roars Ludo Bagman’s voice, “kindly put your wands in the air . . . for the Irish National Team Mascots!”

Next moment, what seems to be a great green-and-gold comet comes zooming into the stadium. It does one circuit of the stadium, then splits into two smaller comets, each hurtling towards the goalposts. A rainbow arcs suddenly across the field, connecting the two balls of light. The crowd oooohs and aaaaahs, as though at a fireworks display. Now the rainbow fades and the balls of light reunites and merges; they form a great shimmering shamrock, which rises up into the sky and begins to soar over the stands. Something like golden rain seems to be falling from it —

They didn’t! “Excellent!” yells Ron as the shamrock soars over us, and heavy gold coins rain from it, bouncing off our heads and seats. Squinting up at the shamrock, I realize that it is actually comprised of thousands of tiny little bearded men with red vests, each carrying a minute lamp of gold or green.

“Leprechauns!” I cry over the tumultuous applause of the crowd, many of whom are still fighting and rummaging around under their chairs to retrieve the gold.

“There you go,” Ron yells happily, stuffing a fistful of gold coins into Harry’s hand, “for the Omnioculars! Now you’ve got to buy me a Christmas present, ha!”

The great shamrock dissolves, the leprechauns drift down onto the field on the opposite side from the veela, and settle themselves cross-legged to watch the match.

“And now, ladies and gentlemen, kindly welcome — the Bulgarian National Quidditch Team! I give you — Dimitrov!”

A scarlet-clad figure on a broomstick, moving so fast it is blurred, shoots out onto the field from an entrance far below, to wild applause from the Bulgarian supporters.

“Ivanova!” A second scarlet-robed player zooms out. “Zograf! Levski! Vulchanov! Volkov! Aaaaaaand — Krum!”

“That’s him, that’s him!” yells Ron, following Krum with his Omnioculars. I quickly grab mine from around my neck and focus on him as well. I might not be in love with Krum like Ron is but he still is one of the best Quidditch players in the world.

Viktor Krum is thin, dark, and sallow-skinned, with a large curved nose and thick black eyebrows. He looks like an overgrown bird of prey. It is hard to believe he is only eighteen.

“And now, please greet — the Irish National Quidditch Team!” yells Bagman. I start cheering loudly with my friends. “Presenting — Connolly! Ryan! Troy! Mullet! Moran! Quigley! Aaaaaand — Lynch!”

Seven green blurs sweep onto the field; I spin a small dial on the side of my Omnioculars and slow the players down enough to read the word “Firebolt” on each of their brooms and see their names, embroidered in silver, upon their backs. This is one handy little gadget I’ll tell you!

“And here, all the way from Egypt, our referee, acclaimed Chairwizard of the International Association of Quidditch, Hassan Mostafa!”

A small and skinny wizard, completely bald but with a mustache to rival Harry’s Uncle Vernon’s, wearing robes of pure gold to match the stadium, strides out onto the field. A silver whistle is protruding from under the mustache, and he is carrying a large wooden crate under one arm, his broomstick under the other. I spin the speed dial on my Omnioculars back to normal, watching closely as Mostafa mounts his broomstick and kicks the crate open — four balls burst into the air: the scarlet Quaffle, the two black Bludgers, and (I see it for the briefest moment, before it speeds out of sight) the minuscule, winged Golden Snitch. With a sharp blast on his whistle, Mostafa shoots into the air after the balls.

“Theeeeeeeey’re OFF!” screams Bagman. I wince at the volume. “And it’s Mullet! Troy! Moran! Dimitrov! Back to Mullet! Troy! Levski! Moran!”

It us Quidditch as we have never seen it played before. The speed of the players is incredible — the Chasers are throwing the Quaffle to one another so fast that Bagman only has time to say their names. I spin the slow dial on the right of my Omnioculars again, press the play-by-play button on the top, and I am immediately watching in slow motion, while glittering purple lettering flashes across the lenses and the noise of the crowd pounds against my eardrums.

This is like a dream come true from me. Ginny is just squealing in awe at this point. I shut mine off not able to stand being behind the play.

“TROY SCORES!” roars Bagman, and the stadium shudders with a roar of applause and cheers. “Ten zero to Ireland!”

I return my gadget to normal and watch the match. Troy does a lap around the field in celebration. Ireland draws first blood!

I know enough about Quidditch to see that the Irish Chasers are superb. They work as a seamless team, their movements so well coordinated that they appear to be reading one another’s minds as they position themselves, and the rosette on my chest keeps squeaking their names: “Troy — Mullet — Moran!” And within ten minutes, Ireland has scored twice more, bringing their lead to thirty–zero and causing a thunderous tide of roars and applause from the green-clad supporters.

The match becomes still faster, but more brutal. Volkov and Vulchanov, the Bulgarian Beaters, are whacking the Bludgers as fiercely as possible at the Irish Chasers, and are starting to prevent them from using some of their best moves; twice they are forced to scatter, and then, finally, Ivanova manages to break through their ranks; dodge the Keeper, Ryan; and score Bulgaria’s first goal.

“Fingers in your ears!” bellows Mr. Weasley as the veela started to dance in celebration. I grin as all the boys follow his instructions. And who said that there is a disadvantage to being a girl?

“Dimitrov! Levski! Dimitrov! Ivanova — oh I say!” roars Bagman.

One hundred thousand wizards gasp as the two Seekers, Krum and Lynch, plummet through the center of the Chasers. I follow their descent through my Omnioculars, squinting to see where the Snitch is —

“They’re going to crash!” screams Hermione next to Harry. She is half right — at the very last second, Viktor Krum pulls out of the dive and spirals off. Lynch, however, hits the ground with a dull thud that can be heard throughout the stadium. A huge groan rises from the Irish seats.

“Fool!” moans Mr. Weasley. “Krum was feinting!” Great.

“It’s time-out!” yells Bagman’s voice, “as trained mediwizards hurry onto the field to examine Aidan Lynch!”

“He’ll be okay, he only got ploughed!” Charlie says reassuringly to Ginny, who is hanging over the side of the box, looking horror-struck. “Which is what Krum was after, of course. . . .”

Lynch gets to his feet at last, to loud cheers from the green-clad supporters, mounts his Firebolt, and kicks back off into the air. His revival seems to give Ireland new heart. When Mostafa blows his whistle again, the Chasers move into action with a skill unrivaled by anything I have seen so far.

After fifteen more fast and furious minutes, Ireland has pulled ahead by ten more goals. They are now leading by one hundred and thirty points to ten, and the game is starting to get dirtier.

As Mullet shoots towards the goalposts yet again, clutching the Quaffle tightly under her arm, the Bulgarian Keeper, Zograf, flies out to meet her. Whatever happens is over so quickly I don’t catch it, but a scream of rage from the Irish crowd, and Mostafa’s long, shrill whistle blast, tells me it is a foul.

“And Mostafa takes the Bulgarian Keeper to task for cobbing — excessive use of elbows!” Bagman informs the roaring spectators. “And — yes, it’s a penalty to Ireland!”

The leprechauns, who have risen angrily into the air like a swarm of glittering hornets when Mullet had been fouled, now dart together to form the words “HA, HA, HA!” The veela on the other side of the field leap to their feet, toss their hair angrily, and start to dance again. Oh brother, battle of the mascots! Not that this is entertaining though.

As one, the Weasley boys, Luka, and Harry stuff their fingers into their ears, but Hermione, who hasn’t bothered (like me), is soon tugging on my arm. I turn to look at her.

“Look at the referee!” she says, giggling Ginny looks as well and soon we’re all giggling. I look down at the field. Hassan Mostafa has landed right in front of the dancing veela, and is acting very oddly indeed. He is flexing his muscles and smoothing his mustache excitedly.

“Now, we can’t have that!” says Ludo Bagman, though he sounds highly amused. “Somebody slap the referee!” Now that will be a sight to see.

A mediwizard comes tearing across the field, his fingers stuffed into his own ears, and kicks Mostafa hard in the shins. Mostafa seems to come to himself; I watch through the Omnioculars again, and see that he looks exceptionally embarrassed and has started shouting at the veela, who have stopped dancing and are looking mutinous.

“And unless I’m much mistaken, Mostafa is actually attempting to send off the Bulgarian team mascots!” says Bagman’s voice. “Now there’s something we haven’t seen before. . . . Oh, this could turn nasty. . . .”

It does: The Bulgarian Beaters, Volkov and Vulchanov, land on either side of Mostafa and begin arguing furiously with him, gesticulating towards the leprechauns, who have now gleefully formed the words “HEE, HEE, HEE.” Mostafa is not impressed by the Bulgarians’ arguments, however; he is jabbing his finger into the air, clearly telling them to get flying again, and when they refuse, he gives two short blasts on his whistle.

“Two penalties for Ireland!” shouts Bagman, and the Bulgarian crowd howls with anger. “And Volkov and Vulchanov had better get back on those brooms . . . yes . . . there they go . . . and Troy takes the Quaffle . . .” Well this is certainly the most interesting game that I have been to in a long time.

Play now reaches a level of ferocity beyond anything we have yet seen. The Beaters on both sides are acting without mercy: Volkov and Vulchanov in particular seem not to care whether their clubs make contact with Bludger or human as they swing them violently through the air. Dimitrov shoots straight at Moran, who has the Quaffle, nearly knocking her off her broom.

“Foul!” roars the Irish supporters as one, all standing up in a great wave of green.

“Foul!” echoes Ludo Bagman’s magically magnified voice. “Dimitrov skins Moran — deliberately flying to collide there — and it’s got to be another penalty — yes, there’s the whistle!”

This is like Slytherin tactics on steroids! The leprechauns rise into the air again, and this time, they form a giant hand, which is making a very rude sign indeed at the veela across the field. At this, the veela lose control. Instead of dancing, they launch themselves across the field and begin throwing what seems to be handfuls of fire at the leprechauns. Watching through my Omnioculars, I see that they don’t look remotely beautiful now. On the contrary, their faces are elongating into sharp, cruel-beaked bird heads, and long, scaly wings are bursting from their shoulders —

“And that, boys,” yells Mr. Weasley over the tumult of the crowd below, “is why you should never go for looks alone!”

Ministry wizards are flooding onto the field to separate the veela and the leprechauns, but with little success; meanwhile, the pitch battle below is nothing to the one taking place above. I turn this way and that, staring through my Omnioculars, as the Quaffle changes hands with the speed of a bullet.

“Levski — Dimitrov — Moran — Troy — Mullet — Ivanova — Moran again — Moran — MORAN SCORES!”

But the cheers of the Irish supporters are barely heard over the shrieks of the veela, the blasts now issuing from the Ministry members’ wands, and the furious roars of the Bulgarians. The game recommences immediately; now Levski has the Quaffle, now Dimitrov —

The Irish Beater Quigley swings heavily at a passing Bludger, and hits it as hard as possible towards Krum, who does not duck quickly enough. It hits him full in the face. Oh, that’s going to hurt when he breathes! And his nose was already so hurt to begin with!

There is a deafening groan from the crowd; Krum’s nose looks broken, there is blood everywhere, but Hassan Mostafa doesn’t blow his whistle. He has become distracted, and I can’t blame him; one of the veela has thrown a handful of fire and set his broom tail alight. This is definitely one crazy game of Quidditch! I wouldn’t have it any other way; the grin that Ginny and I share shows our agreement.

I want someone to realize that Krum is injured; even though I am supporting Ireland, Krum is the most exciting player on the field. Ron obviously feels the same.

“Time-out! Ah, come on, he can’t play like that, look at him —”

“Look at Lynch!” Harry yells. For the Irish Seeker has suddenly gone into a dive, and I am quite sure that this is no Wronski Feint; this is the real thing. . . .

“He’s seen the Snitch!” Harry shouts. “He’s seen it! Look at him go!”

Half the crowd seems to have realized what is happening; the Irish supporters rise in another great wave of green, screaming their Seeker on . . . but Krum is on his tail. How he can see where he is going, I have no idea; there are flecks of blood flying through the air behind him, but he is drawing level with Lynch now as the pair of them hurtle towards the ground again —

“They’re going to crash!” shrieks Hermione.

“They’re not!” roars Ron.

“Lynch is!” yells Harry and I. And we are right — for the second time, Lynch hits the ground with tremendous force and is immediately stampeded by a horde of angry veela.

“The Snitch, where’s the Snitch?” bellows Charlie, along the row.

“He’s got it — Krum’s got it — it’s all over!” shouts Harry. Well Merlin’s Beard! The twins were right! Krum, his red robes shining with blood from his nose, is rising gently into the air, his fist held high, a glint of gold in his hand.

The scoreboard is flashing BULGARIA: 160, IRELAND: 170 across the crowd, who doesn’t seem to have realized what has happened. Then, slowly, as though a great jumbo jet is revving up, the rumbling from the Ireland supporters grows louder and louder and erupts into screams of delight.

“IRELAND WINS!” Bagman shouts, who like the Irish, seems to be taken aback by the sudden end of the match. “KRUM GETS THE SNITCH — BUT IRELAND WINS — good lord, I don’t think any of us were expecting that!”

“What did he catch the Snitch for?” Ron bellows, even as he jumps up and down, applauding with his hands over his head. “He ended it when Ireland were a hundred and sixty points ahead, the idiot!”

“He knew they were never going to catch up!” I shout back over all the noise, also applauding loudly. “The Irish Chasers were too good. . . . He wanted to end it on his terms, that’s all. . . .”

“He was very brave, wasn’t he?” Hermione says, leaning forward to watch Krum land as a swarm of mediwizards blast a path through the battling leprechauns and veela to get to him. “He looks a terrible mess. . . .” Oh please no Hermione, please don’t do this to me! I’m not ready to give our relationship advice!

I put my Omnioculars to my eyes again. It is hard to see what is happening below, because leprechauns are zooming delightedly all over the field, but I can just make out Krum, surrounded by mediwizards. He looks surlier than ever and refuses to let them mop him up. His team members are around him, shaking their heads and looking dejected; a short way away, the Irish players are dancing gleefully in a shower of gold descending from their mascots. Flags are waving all over the stadium, the Irish national anthem blares from all sides; the veela are shrinking back into their usual, beautiful selves now, though looking dispirited and forlorn.

“Vell, ve fought bravely,” says a gloomy voice behind me. We looked around; it is the Bulgarian Minister of Magic.

“You can speak English!” says Fudge, sounding outraged. “And you’ve been letting me mime everything all day!”

“Vell, it vos very funny,” says the Bulgarian minister, shrugging.

“And as the Irish team performs a lap of honor, flanked by their mascots, the Quidditch World Cup itself is brought into the Top Box!” roars Bagman.

My eyes are suddenly dazzled by a blinding white light, as the Top Box is magically illuminated so that everyone in the stands can see the inside. Squinting towards the entrance, I see two panting wizards carrying a vast golden cup into the box, which they hand to Cornelius Fudge, who is still looking very disgruntled that he’s been using sign language all day for nothing.

“Let’s have a really loud hand for the gallant losers — Bulgaria!” Bagman shouts.

One by one, the Bulgarians file between the rows of seats in the box, and Bagman calls out the name of each as they shake hands with their own minister and then with Fudge. Krum, who is last in line, looks a real mess. Two black eyes are blooming spectacularly on his bloody face. He is still holding the Snitch. I notice that he seems much less coordinated on the ground. He is slightly duck-footed and distinctly round-shouldered. But when Krum’s name is announced, the whole stadium gives him a resounding, earsplitting roar.

And then comes the Irish team. Aidan Lynch is being supported by Moran and Connolly; the second crash seems to have dazed him and his eyes look strangely unfocused. But he grins happily as Troy and Quigley lift the Cup into the air and the crowd below thunders its approval. My hands are numb with clapping. I didn’t think that we were going to get this close to the players and the cup!

At last, when the Irish team has left the box to perform another lap of honor on their brooms (Aidan Lynch on the back of Connolly’s, clutching hard around his waist and still grinning in a bemused sort of way), Bagman points his wand at his throat and mutters, “Quietus.”

“They’ll be talking about this one for years,” he says hoarsely, “a really unexpected twist, that. . . . shame it couldn’t have lasted longer. . . . Ah yes. . . . yes, I owe you . . . how much?”

For Fred and George have just scrambled over the backs of their seats and are standing in front of Ludo Bagman with broad grins on their faces, their hands outstretched. I can’t believe it those two seem to be the true winners of this World Cup Match it seems.


	7. The Dark Mark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything you recognize is J.K. Rowling's. Except Jamie, Luka, and Ariana.

Chapter 7- The Dark Mark

 

“Don’t tell your mother you’ve been gambling,” Mr. Weasley implores Fred and George as we all make our way slowly down the purple-carpeted stairs.

“Don’t worry, Dad,” says Fred gleefully, “we’ve got big plans for this money. We don’t want it confiscated.”

“Do we look like we were born yesterday?” George questions. Mr. Weasley looks for a moment as though he is going to ask what these big plans are, but seems to decide, upon reflection, that he does not want to know.

They are soon caught up in the crowds now flooding out of the stadium and back to our campsites. The energy from the match is still causing a slight bounce in our steps. Raucous singing is borne towards us on the night air as we retrace our steps along the lantern-lit path, and leprechauns keep shooting over our heads, cackling and waving their lanterns. When they finally reaching the tents, nobody feels like sleeping at all, and given the level of noise around them, Mr. Weasley agrees that we could all have one last cup of cocoa together before turning in.

We are soon arguing enjoyably about the match; Mr. Weasley gets drawn into a disagreement about cobbing with Charlie, and it is only when Ginny falls asleep right at the tiny table and spills hot chocolate all over the floor, and Luka (much to his displeasure), that Mr. Weasley calls a halt to the verbal replays and insists that everyone goes to bed.

I get up from my spot and stretch my cramped limbs with a yawn before helping Hermione get Ginny to her feet and steady so that she doesn’t fall over. We bid our goodnights to the boys and Mr. Weasley and go into the tent next to the boys, which fortunately does not indeed smell like cat urine.

While Hermione goes to sort out the sleeping situation I hand Ginny her pajamas from her bag that she brought while getting mine out as well. This set has flying Quidditch balls all over them. When Hermione appears back into the room, she’s in her pajamas as well that are a light pink with cats all over them.

“You ready?” She asks us. We nod our heads and stumble to the other room that has the beds in them. They’re bunk beds again, and I silently thank my small room back at the Weasley’s for the preparation for the top bunk. Ginny crawls into the first bottom bunk that she sees and is almost instantly asleep. I grin softly at that and shake my head fondly. Hermione goes over to another bottom bunk and sits down on it.

By the look on her face, I can tell that there is something that she wants to talk about. I slowly make my way over and plop down beside her. “What’s up Mione?” I ask her softly as so not to wake up Ginny. She flicks her gaze at me for a second worriedly then back to the scratchy blanket that’s on the bed.

“I’ve been meaning to ask… how are you doing with not living with Kingsley any more. I know that the Weasleys are great, but it must still be a huge shock and change.” Hermione says. I bite down on my lower lip.

I twiddle with the frayed edge of her blanket, only stopping when Hermione’s hand comes to a rest over mine. I raise my gaze back up to hers and let out a shaky breath. “Its… okay. There’s really not all that much to say about it really. I mean when you’ve lost one set of parents already to begin with losing another is not that hard. Not that I’ve lost Kingsley!” I say quickly. Hermione gives me this heavy analyzing look before nodding her head slowly.

“I know that you are in fact hurting Jamie whether you want to talk about it or not. I just want you to know though that I will always be there for you.” Hermione tells me. I grin at her softly reminded yet again why the girl is the best friend that I could ever possibly have.

“You’re the best Mione. Don’t let anyone else ever tell you differently.” I tell her. She smiles at me in return and crushes me into a hug.

“We should get to sleep, we don’t want to be having to worry about an early start tomorrow.” She says. I glance over at Ginny seeing her splayed out on her stomach and one hand hanging over the bed.

I smile softly at the sight. I slide off the mattress and pad over to Ginny softly, picking up her hand and putting it back on the bed beside her, pulling the sheet back over the sleeping girl. I smile softly at her, and turn back around to catch the satisfied look on Hermione’s face and the look of knowing in her eyes.

“What?” I whisper confused.

“Nothing Jamie.” She tells me, and lays down snuggling into her pillow. With a sigh and a grumble about how damn confusing girls are, I climb up into the top bunk above Ginny. I guess that habits will be hard to change now. I lay down on top of the sheets feeling too hot to sleep under them. I look up at the top of the tent, and I can just barely see the light of the stars through the thin fabric.

This was a good day.

* * *

A shrill scream tears me from the pleasantness of sleep. I had been back at Hogwarts playing Quidditch with all my friends, and even Hermione was on the team, and she’s bloody terrified of flying. The loud cry breaks through the pleasant dream and I’m startled awake panting wildly my heart attempting to beat its way out of its chest.

“Girls— Ginny— Jamie— Hermione, get up this is urgent!” Mr. Weasley’s worried voice comes from in front of us. I push up from my mattress and rub my eyes blearily. The tip of Mr. Weasley’s wand illuminates the room.

“Wha’s going on?” Hermione asks still half asleep. Ginny finally pushes up from out of her blanket cocoon. I slip down from the top bunk misjudging the distance with my sleep addled brain stumbling a bit, but Mr. Weasley catches and straightens me out. I can finally see his face, and the look of fear present on his face worries me.

“Now’s not the time girls, quickly change! We have to go!” Mr. Weasley orders, and the screams from outside get louder. Fear snakes into the pit of my stomach. Oh what’s happening now? I don’t think that I could take any more bad things for the moment. I feel a squeeze to my hand and I see Ginny there as she lets go of my hand to get changed along with Hermione. When the three of us are changed we stumble out of our tent and into the boys.

The looks on their faces are worrisome as well. Turns out they had a good reason to be.

By the light of the few fires that are still burning, I can see people running away into the woods, fleeing something that is moving across the field towards us, something that is emitting odd flashes of light and noises like gunfire. Loud jeering, roars of laughter, and drunken yells are drifting towards us; then comes a burst of strong green light, which illuminates the scene.

A crowd of wizards, tightly packed and moving together with wands pointing straight upward, is marching slowly across the field. Something at the back of my mind shifts. I squint at them. . . . They don’t seem to have faces. . . . Then I realize that their heads are hooded and their faces masked. High above them, floating along in midair, four struggling figures are being contorted into grotesque shapes. It is as though the masked wizards on the ground are puppeteers, and the people above them are marionettes operated by invisible strings that rise from the wands into the air. Two of the figures are very small.

Oh Merlin no, not again, never again. I start shaking from my spot next to everyone.

More wizards are joining the marching group, laughing and pointing up at the floating bodies. Tents crumple and fall as the marching crowd swells. Once or twice I see one of the marchers blast a tent out of his way with his wand. Several catch fire. The screaming grows louder. My mouth is dry and I glance over at my brother worriedly. Does he remember?

The floating people are suddenly illuminated as they pass over a burning tent and I recognize one of them: Mr. Roberts, the campsite manager. The other three look as though they might be his wife and children. One of the marchers below flips Mrs. Roberts upside down with his wand; her nightdress falls down to reveal voluminous drawers and she struggles to cover herself up as the crowd below her screeches and hoots with glee.

I feel sick watching the scene going on. Someone has to do something! Stop them! “That’s sick,” Ron mutters, watching the smallest Muggle child, who has begun to spin like a top, sixty feet above the ground, his head flopping limply from side to side. “That is really sick. . . .” Oh please Merlin let him not be dead!

Suddenly Mr. Weasley and the eldest Weasley boys appear beside us. “We’re going to help the Ministry!” Mr. Weasley shouts over all the noise, rolling up his own sleeves. “You lot — get into the woods, and stick together. I’ll come and fetch you when we’ve sorted this out!”

Bill, Charlie, and Percy are already sprinting away towards the oncoming marchers; Mr. Weasley tears after them. Fear lodges firmly in my throat. Ministry wizards are dashing from every direction towards the source of the trouble. The crowd beneath the Roberts family is coming ever closer.

“C’mon,” says Fred, grabbing Ginny’s hand and starting to pull her towards the wood. Harry, Ron, Hermione, George, Luka, and I follow. We all look back as we reach the trees. The crowd beneath the Roberts family is larger than ever; we can see the Ministry wizards trying to get through it to the hooded wizards in the center, but they are having great difficulty. It looks as though they are scared to perform any spell that might make the Roberts family fall.

Suddenly a sharp pain lances up through my ankle, and with a cry I’m down sprawled on the ground. The pain in my ankle is enough to bring tears to my eyes. I strain my eyes to look around for people, but it seems as my friends and brother have all vanished into thin air.

A new fear rolls over me and it’s an icy one. With a soft groan I push up to my feet, and wince when the pain sends me right back down like a sack of bricks. This is just great now I’m injured and alone when there’s danger around. I slowly and painfully pull myself over to the trunk of a tree. I bite my lower lip as I am able to see the damage to my leg.

My ankle is two times the size that it should be and a sickly bruise is already beginning to form on it. Merlin this isn’t good. I try to remember the last time that I’ve ever been truly alone. When I had no friends for a while last year, but no there’s literally no one around… I could die. I can hear explosions off in the distance and screams. A shiver runs down my spine.

I hope that Luka and the others are safe. Hopefully they’re still together and that they don’t do anything stupid until someone comes to find us. The cold is beginning to affect me now, and goose bumps rise up along my arms and the back of my neck. After a few minutes of sitting there wallowing in my own self pity I growl angrily. This is not who I am!

I’m not going to just sit here and wait for someone to come and find me even if I am hurt! I’ve gone up against a giant serpent, Tom Riddle, and a ginormous spider, one little twisted ankle isn’t going to take me out now. I haul myself painfully up to my feet, using the trunk as support. I’m wobbly, and I have the sinking feeling that as soon as I try to take a step away, I’m going to be going sprawling on the ground.

Well crap, looks like I’ve really got myself into a bad spot here. With an annoyed sigh I sink carefully back down to the ground. I close my eyes in relief from the pain, and no sooner have my eyelids dropped does a rustling sound come from the bushes off to the right. I bolt forward immediately unsure about who or what is coming.

I clutch my wand in my hand tightly and level it at the shaking bush. I don’t care if I get kicked out now. This is self defense! My wand is shaking in my grasp and I’m about to cast a spell when a person stumbles through. Not just any person though, a blond haired girl in soft pink pajamas. There are a few leaves sticking out of her hair, but I could recognize Ariana Dumbledore from anywhere.

“Ariana?” I ask my voice slightly shaking in the off chance that I’m wrong. The girl jumps and whirls around to face me, pointing her wand directly in my face. I bite my lower lip worriedly, but after a second she realizes that its me with a gasp, and immediately lowers her wand to her side.

“Jamie! What in Merlin’s name are you doing just sitting here? Don’t you know how dangerous it is at the moment?” Ariana demands lowering her wand and giving me a chastising look.

“Well obviously I do Ariana or I would be back in my tent most likely on fire right now instead of sitting in a dark forest with no bloody idea where I am.” I say crossly, my irritation about my situation getting the best of me.

Ariana looks me over as best she can, and sucks in a breath of air when she sees my bad ankle. “Where is Luka? Or at least Hermione, since your friends travel together? I would have thought that you’d be together!” She says dropping to her knees in front of me, and gently probing the swollen area.

I hiss in pain and she immediately draws her hand away with a sheepish look. “We got separated, I tripped over something back there, and obviously hurt my ankle. I’ve tried walking… it hasn’t ended very well for me.” I admit. Ariana looks at the forest around us. We can still hear the loud yells coming from the wizards at the campground.

“We’re not far enough away. Come on Pendragon, I’m not leaving you behind so up and at ‘em!” Ariana says grabbing my by my arms and helping me hoist myself to my feet. She steadies me with an arm around my waist, and I can’t help but lean into her for support.

Ariana is a welcome source of heat after being on the cold ground. I instantly blush at that thought, thankful that it is hard to see where we’re going.

“All right Dumbledore since you’re so smart lead the way. Where exactly are all the others?” I ask her. We start trudging along further into the brush.

“I’m not sure exactly. All I care about at the moment is that we’re far enough away from that— that monstrosity. I don’t understand how someone can be truly that evil.” Ariana says her voice quivering. I glance over at the girl and see pools of water form in her eyes.

“I can… I’ve seen it with my own eyes many times. Some people out there wizards and muggles combined are truly horrific people who do dastardly things. The thing to remember, or at least try to remember is that there are as many inherently good people out there for every truly bad one, and there are people that can be swayed either way. There is always hope.” I tell her shakily remembering things I don’t wish to remember.

Ariana is silent for a moment before a soft laugh escapes her. “Since when have you become so philosophical and introspective Jamie?” She questions. I chuckle softly, and shrug my one shoulder.

“Everyone has to grow up at sometime Ariana. I guess that I’m starting to come into mine— kicking and screaming of course, but I’m getting there.” I joke. Ariana laughs softly again. The woods around us are becoming denser but we are starting to hear more voices ahead of us instead of behind us.

“Where are the Diggorys?” I ask her. Ariana’s eyebrows scrunch in worry.

“Went off to fight with the others. Ced really shouldn’t be though, he may be seventeen but he’s still a Hogwarts student. He’s not ready for this sort of fight.” She says. I raise my eyebrow at that information. Sounds like she cares an awful lot about him.

We slow as we begin to hear loud voices directly ahead of us. There is a clearing in front of us, and a little ways away I see the worried and startled figures of my friends. I heave a sigh of relief seeing that they’re okay. “Look there Pendragon they’re fine, now all we need to find is your brother and my other favorite pair of twins.” Ariana tells me squeezing my arm comfortingly.

Before we’re able to make it over to them we’re halted by a sound. It sounds as though someone is staggering towards our clearing. We wait, listening to the sounds of the uneven steps behind the dark trees. But the footsteps come to a sudden halt.

“Hello?” I hear Harry call out. Stupid! He’s just given away that we’re all here. I’m going to have to teach boy wonder a thing or two about stealth later.

There is silence. Ariana and I peer around the tree. It is too dark to see very far, but I can sense somebody standing just beyond the range of my vision.

“Who’s there?” Harry asks again. Ugh! Seriously Potter! And then, without warning, the silence is rent by a voice unlike any we have heard in the woods; and it uttered, not a panicked shout, but what sounds like a spell.

“MORSMORDRE!” Something terrible in my mind clicks into place. And something vast, green, and glittering erupts from the patch of darkness my eyes have been struggling to penetrate; it flies up over the treetops and into the sky. Oh Merlin… please no.

For a split second, I think it is another leprechaun formation. Then I realize that it is a colossal skull, comprised of what looks like emerald stars, with a serpent protruding from its mouth like a tongue. As we watch, it rises higher and higher, blazing in a haze of greenish smoke, etched against the black sky like a new constellation.

I start shaking and my vision begins to blacken as I’m thrown back into a memory that I’ve never wanted to revisit.

 

_Its dark out and I rub my eyes furiously because its hours past my bedtime and I was supposed to be asleep. I’m held cradled in my mother’s arms, my thumb slowly migrating to my mouth because everyone is upset and worried. I can see out the window from my position in her arms. Outside there are lights and I can see a lot of people dressed in black._

_Suddenly a shout goes up, and something big, green, and glittering rises to the sky. A giant ghostly skull rises to the sky with a green snake coming out of its mouth. I duck my head under my mom’s chin shaking in fear. That is scary. I’m terrified about what’s going on now. I’m shaking in her arms, and she pulls me closer rocking me._

_“Its okay Jamie, hush baby. This will all be over soon. I promise.” I can hear her voice from where I’m pressed against her chest._

_“DANNY! You know this is pointless! What I’m asking for really isn’t that much! You and Alexis can still walk away from this. All I want are the children! Think smartly Danny. You and Alexis can live and have more children, all I want are these two. One of them has something that I desperately want! You know that Danny, make this easy, give me the kids!” A raspy voice calls out._

_“You know I will NEVER do that Augustus!” My father shouts back. There are a few moments of silence._

_“Very well Danny, you leave me no choice then.”_

“Jamie!” Ariana says worriedly shaking my shoulder finally snapping me back into the present. I snap my gaze back to her and she lets out a relieved sigh, before she grows worried again, reaching out her hand to wipe stray tears from my cheeks. “Don’t cry Jamie, please don’t cry.” She murmurs softly. I shake my head and bite my lower lip to get control over my emotions.

Memories like that keep popping up in inopportune moments nowadays. Suddenly, the wood all around us erupts with screams. I don’t understand why, but the only possible cause is the sudden appearance of the skull, which has now risen high enough to illuminate the entire wood like some grisly neon sign. I scan the darkness for the person who has conjured the skull, but I can’t see anyone.

“Come on let’s get to them before they decide to leave.” Ariana tells me, half dragging me along to the area where my friends are hiding. When we get close three wands point at us, with scared faces behind them.

“Who’s there?” Ron’s shaky voice calls out.

“Jamie and Ariana.” I respond finally getting back control over myself. We come closer and they’re finally able to see our faces. Relieved sighs come from all five of us.

“Thank god! Jamie, we thought we’d lost you!” Hermione cries wrapping her arms around me tightly. I give her a light squeeze, before leaning back into Ariana. Her arm goes right back to my waist. “We can’t stay here come on!” She says pulling Harry and Ron by their sleeves, and our group starts across the clearing quickly. Well, I’m going as fast as I can.

But before we have taken a few hurried steps, a series of popping noises announces the arrival of twenty wizards, appearing from thin air, surrounding us. Oh this is not going to be good.

Harry whirls around, and in an instant, he registers one fact: Each of these wizards had his wand out, and every wand is pointing right at himself, Ron, Hermione, Ariana, and me.

Without pausing to think, he yells, “DUCK!” He pulls Ron and Hermione down, while Ariana shoves me down landing on top of me shielding me with her body.

“STUPEFY!” roars twenty voices — there is a blinding series of flashes and I feel the hair on my head ripple as though a powerful wind has swept the clearing. Raising my head a fraction of an inch I see jets of fiery red light flying over us from the wizards’ wands, crossing one another, bouncing off tree trunks, rebounding into the darkness —

“Keep down Jamie.” Ariana pants into my ear. I can feel the erratic beat of her heart against my back. I swallow thickly and pray that we make it out of this alive. It’s not our fault for once too!

“Stop!” yells a voice I recognize. “STOP! That’s my son!” Oh thank you Merlin, Mr. Weasley!

My hair stops blowing about. I raise my head a little higher. The wizard in front of us has lowered his wand. Ariana rolls off of me and we see Mr. Weasley striding towards us, looking terrified.

“Ron — Jamie— Harry” — his voice sounds shaky — “Hermione— Ariana— are you all right?”

“Out of the way, Arthur,” says a cold, curt voice. It is Mr. Crouch. He and the other Ministry wizards are closing in on us. We scramble to our feet to face them. Mr. Crouch’s face is taut with rage. Well I think its safe to say that this isn’t going to end well.

“Which of you did it?” he snaps, his sharp eyes darting between us. “Which of you conjured the Dark Mark?”

“We didn’t do that!” says Harry, gesturing up at the skull.

“We didn’t do anything!” cries Ron, who was rubbing his elbow and looking indignantly at his father. “What did you want to attack us for?”

“Do not lie, sir!” shouts Mr. Crouch. His wand is still pointing directly at Ron, and his eyes are popping — he looks slightly mad. “You have been discovered at the scene of the crime!”

I feel myself to begin to shake with fear. I step closer to Ariana and reach out. I find her hand and clasp it tightly. This doesn’t look good for us this time.

“Barty,” whispers a witch in a long woolen dressing gown, “they’re kids, Barty, they’d never have been able to —”

“Where did the Mark come from, you five?” says Mr. Weasley quickly.

“Over there,” says Hermione shakily, pointing at the place where they had heard the voice. “There was someone behind the trees . . . they shouted words — an incantation —”

“Oh, stood over there, did they?” says Mr. Crouch, turning his popping eyes on Hermione now, disbelief etched all over his face. “Said an incantation, did they? You seem very well informed about how that Mark is summoned, missy —”

“I-It’s the truth sir. We couldn’t have done it.” I speak up finally. Even scared, no one gets to talk to Hermione that way, especially when she hasn’t learned how to stand up for herself yet.

Crouch turns his wand and his angry gaze at me, and Ariana steps in front of me slightly. I pull her back, not wanting the Dumbledore to do anything stupid here.

But none of the Ministry wizards apart from Mr. Crouch seem to think it remotely likely that Harry, Ron, Hermione, Ariana, and I had conjured the skull; on the contrary, at Hermione’s words, they all raise their wands again and are pointing in the direction she has indicated, squinting through the dark trees.

“We’re too late,” says the witch in the woolen dressing gown, shaking her head. “They’ll have Disapparated.”

“I don’t think so,” says a wizard with a scrubby brown beard. It is Amos Diggory, Cedric’s father. “Our Stunners went right through those trees. . . . There’s a good chance we got them. . . .”

“Amos, be careful!” say a few of the wizards warningly as Mr. Diggory squares his shoulders, raises his wand, marches across the clearing, and disappears into the darkness. Hermione watches him vanish with her hands over her mouth and Ariana looks after him worriedly.

A few seconds later, we hear Mr. Diggory shout. “Yes! We got them! There’s someone here! Unconscious! It’s — but — blimey . . .” I wonder who it is?

“You’ve got someone?” shouts Mr. Crouch, sounding highly disbelieving. “Who? Who is it?”

We hear snapping twigs, the rustling of leaves, and then crunching footsteps as Mr. Diggory reemerges from behind the trees. He is carrying a tiny, limp figure in his arms. I recognize the tea towel at once. It is Winky.

Mr. Crouch does not move or speak as Mr. Diggory deposits his elf on the ground at his feet. The other Ministry wizards are all staring at Mr. Crouch. For a few seconds Crouch remains transfixed, his eyes blazing in his white face as he stares down at Winky. Then he appears to come to life again.

“This — cannot — be,” he says jerkily. “No —” He moves quickly around Mr. Diggory and strides off towards the place where he has found Winky.

“No point, Mr. Crouch,” Mr. Diggory calls after him. “There’s no one else there.”

But Mr. Crouch does not seem prepared to take his word for it. We can hear him moving around and the rustling of leaves as he pushes the bushes aside, searching. I bite down on my lower lip. This just doesn’t seem right. The voice casting the spell couldn’t have been the elf. It was a very deep voice, not squeaky at all.

“Bit embarrassing,” Mr. Diggory says grimly, looking down at Winky’s unconscious form. “Barty Crouch’s house-elf . . . I mean to say . . .”

“Come off it, Amos,” says Mr. Weasley quietly, “you don’t seriously think it was the elf? The Dark Mark’s a wizard’s sign. It requires a wand.”

“Yeah,” says Mr. Diggory, “and she had a wand.”

“What?” says Mr. Weasley.

“Here, look.” Mr. Diggory holds up a wand and shows it to Mr. Weasley. “Had it in her hand. So that’s clause three of the Code of Wand Use broken, for a start. No non-human creature is permitted to carry or use a wand.”

Just then there is another pop, and Ludo Bagman Apparates right next to Mr. Weasley. Looking breathless and disorientated, he spins on the spot, goggling upwards at the emerald-green skull.

“The Dark Mark!” he pants, almost trampling Winky as he turns inquiringly to his colleagues. “Who did it? Did you get them? Barty! What’s going on?”

Mr. Crouch has returned empty-handed. His face is still ghostly white, and his hands and his toothbrush mustache are both twitching.

“Where have you been, Barty?” says Bagman. “Why weren’t you at the match? Your elf was saving you a seat too — gulping gargoyles!” Bagman has just noticed Winky lying at his feet. “What happened to her?”

“I have been busy, Ludo,” says Mr. Crouch, still talking in the same jerky fashion, barely moving his lips. “And my elf has been Stunned.”

“Stunned? By you lot, you mean? But why — ?” Comprehension dawns suddenly on Bagman’s round, shiny face; he looks up at the skull, down at Winky, and then at Mr. Crouch.

“No!” he says. “Winky? Conjure the Dark Mark? She wouldn’t know how! She’d need a wand, for a start!”

“And she had one,” says Mr. Diggory. “I found her holding one, Ludo. If it’s all right with you, Mr. Crouch, I think we should hear what she’s got to say for herself.”

Crouch gives no sign that he has heard Mr. Diggory, but Mr. Diggory seems to take his silence for assent. He raises his own wand, points it at Winky, and says, “Rennervate!”

Winky stirs feebly. Her great brown eyes open and she blinks several times in a bemused sort of way. Watched by the silent wizards, she raises herself shakily into a sitting position. She catches sight of Mr. Diggory’s feet, and slowly, tremulously, raised her eyes to stare up into his face; then, more slowly still, she looks up into the sky. I can see the floating skull reflected twice in her enormous, glassy eyes. She gives a gasp, looks wildly around the crowded clearing, and bursts into terrified sobs.

“Elf!” says Mr. Diggory sternly. “Do you know who I am? I’m a member of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures!” Okay I’m not a fan of Mr. Diggory.

Winky begins to rock backwards and forwards on the ground, her breath coming in sharp bursts. I am reminded forcibly of Dobby in his moments of terrified disobedience.

“As you see, elf, the Dark Mark was conjured here a short while ago,” says Mr. Diggory. “And you were discovered moments later, right beneath it! An explanation, if you please!”

“I — I — I is not doing it, sir!” Winky gasps. “I is not knowing how, sir!”

“You were found with a wand in your hand!” barks Mr. Diggory, brandishing it in front of her. And as the wand catches the green light that is filling the clearing from the skull above, Harry recognizes it.

“Hey — that’s mine!” he says. Everyone in the clearing looks at him.

“Excuse me?” says Mr. Diggory, incredulously.

“That’s my wand!” says Harry. “I dropped it!” Oh Harry no.

“You dropped it?” repeats Mr. Diggory in disbelief. “Is this a confession? You threw it aside after you conjured the Mark?”

“Amos, think who you’re talking to!” says Mr. Weasley, very angrily. “Is Harry Potter likely to conjure the Dark Mark?”

“Er — of course not,” mumbles Mr. Diggory. “Sorry . . . carried away . . .” I roll my eyes at the ground. Seriously some adults have worse reasoning skills then kids.

“I didn’t drop it there, anyway,” says Harry, jerking his thumb towards the trees beneath the skull. “I missed it right after we got into the wood.”

“So,” says Mr. Diggory, his eyes hardening as he turns to look at Winky again, cowering at his feet. “You found this wand, eh, elf? And you picked it up and thought you’d have some fun with it, did you?”

“I is not doing magic with it, sir!” squeals Winky, tears streaming down the sides of her squashed and bulbous nose. “I is . . . I is . . . I is just picking it up, sir! I is not making the Dark Mark, sir, I is not knowing how!”

I feel terrible for her. There’s no way that she could have possibly done this. The real perpetrator has obviously gotten away.

“It wasn’t her!” says Hermione. She looks very nervous, speaking up in front of all these Ministry wizards, yet determined all the same. “Winky’s got a squeaky little voice, and the voice we heard doing the incantation was much deeper!” She looks around at Harry, Ron, Ariana, and me appealing for our support. “It didn’t sound anything like Winky, did it?”

“No,” says Harry, shaking his head. “It definitely didn’t sound like an elf.”

“Yeah, it was a human voice,” says Ron.

“Elves don’t know how to cast spells, and to learn that one specifically would be challenging, not to mention pointless.” I tell them. Ariana pinches me slightly for my tone and attitude.

“Jamie has a point, as well as the others.” She says.

“Well, we’ll soon see,” growls Mr. Diggory, looking unimpressed. I seriously dislike this guy. He’s too closed-minded. “There’s a simple way of discovering the last spell a wand performed, elf, did you know that?”

Winky trembles and shakes her head frantically, her ears flapping, as Mr. Diggory raises his own wand again and places it tip to tip with Harry’s.

“Prior Incantato!” roars Mr. Diggory.

I hear Hermione gasp, horrified, as a gigantic serpent-tongued skull erupts from the point where the two wands meet, but it is a mere shadow of the green skull high above us; it looks as though it is made of thick gray smoke: the ghost of a spell.

“Deletrius!” Mr. Diggory shouts, and the smoky skull vanishes in a wisp of smoke.

“So,” says Mr. Diggory with a kind of savage triumph, looking down upon Winky, who is still shaking convulsively. Really don’t like this man who treats others this way. I open my mouth to speak up against him, but Ariana pinches me again with a shake of her head, and I glare at her.

“I is not doing it!” she squeals, her eyes rolling in terror. “I is not, I is not, I is not knowing how! I is a good elf, I isn’t using wands, I isn’t knowing how!”

“You’ve been caught red-handed, elf!” Mr. Diggory roars. “Caught with the guilty wand in your hand!” I’m going to hit him. I’m seriously going to hit him. Ariana tightens her grip on me.

“Don’t.” She whispers into my ear, now stroking the back of my hand with her thumb.

“Amos,” sats Mr. Weasley loudly, “think about it . . . precious few wizards know how to do that spell. . . . Where would she have learned it?”

“Perhaps Amos is suggesting,” says Mr. Crouch, cold anger in every syllable, “that I routinely teach my servants to conjure the Dark Mark?”

There is a deeply unpleasant silence. Amos Diggory looks horrified. “Mr. Crouch . . . not . . . not at all . . .” Good, He deserves this.

“You have now come very close to accusing the two people in this clearing who are least likely to conjure that Mark!” barks Mr. Crouch. “Harry Potter — and myself! I suppose you are familiar with the boy’s story, Amos?”

“Of course — everyone knows —” mutters Mr. Diggory, looking highly discomforted.

“And I trust you remember the many proofs I have given, over a long career, that I despise and detest the Dark Arts and those who practice them?” Mr. Crouch shouts, his eyes bulging again.

“Mr. Crouch, I — I never suggested you had anything to do with it!” Amos Diggory mutters again, now reddening behind his scrubby brown beard. I don’t feel any pity for him.

“If you accuse my elf, you accuse me, Diggory!” shouts Mr. Crouch. “Where else would she have learned to conjure it?”

“She — she might’ve picked it up anywhere —”

“Precisely, Amos,” says Mr. Weasley. “She might have picked it up anywhere. . . . Winky?” he says kindly, turning to the elf, but she flinches as though he too is shouting at her. “Where exactly did you find Harry’s wand?”

Winky is twisting the hem of her tea towel so violently that it is fraying beneath her fingers.

“I — I is finding it . . . finding it there, sir. . . .” she whispers, “there . . . in the trees, sir. . . .”

“You see, Amos?” says Mr. Weasley. “Whoever conjured the Mark could have Disapparated right after they’d done it, leaving Harry’s wand behind. A clever thing to do, not using their own wand, which could have betrayed them. And Winky here had the misfortune to come across the wand moments later and pick it up.”

I look gratefully at Mr. Weasley. But then, she’d have been only a few feet away from the real culprit!” says Mr. Diggory impatiently. “Elf? Did you see anyone?”

Winky begins to tremble worse than ever. Her giant eyes flicker from Mr. Diggory, to Ludo Bagman, and onto Mr. Crouch. Then she gulps and says, “I is seeing no one, sir . . . no one . . .”

“Amos,” says Mr. Crouch curtly, “I am fully aware that, in the ordinary course of events, you would want to take Winky into your department for questioning. I ask you, however, to allow me to deal with her.”

Mr. Diggory looks as though he doesn’t think much of this suggestion at all, but it is clear to me that Mr. Crouch is such an important member of the Ministry that he does not dare refuse him.

“You may rest assured that she will be punished,” Mr. Crouch adds coldly.

“M-m-master . . .” Winky stammers, looking up at Mr. Crouch, her eyes brimming with tears. “M-m-master, p-p-please . . .”

Mr. Crouch stares back, his face somehow sharpened, each line upon it more deeply etched. There is no pity in his gaze.

“Winky has behaved tonight in a manner I would not have believed possible,” he says slowly. “I told her to remain in the tent. I told her to stay there while I went to sort out the trouble. And I find that she disobeyed me. This means clothes.”

“No!” shrieks Winky, prostrating herself at Mr. Crouch’s feet. “No, master! Not clothes, not clothes!”

I know that the only way to turn a house-elf free is to present it with proper garments. It is pitiful to see the way Winky clutches at her tea towel as she sobs over Mr. Crouch’s feet.

“But she was frightened!” Hermione bursts out angrily, glaring at Mr. Crouch. “Your elf’s scared of heights, and those wizards in masks were levitating people! You can’t blame her for wanting to get out of their way!”

Mr. Crouch takes a step backward, freeing himself from contact with the elf, whom he is surveying as though she is something filthy and rotten that is contaminating his over-shined shoes. I hate this man as well. I really despise most ministry workers. Luka is so handling the political side of our estate.

“I have no use for a house-elf who disobeys me,” he says coldly, looking over at Hermione. “I have no use for a servant who forgets what is due to her master, and to her master’s reputation.”

Winky is crying so hard that her sobs echo around the clearing. There is a very nasty silence, which is ended by Mr. Weasley, who says quietly, “Well, I think I’ll take my lot back to the tent, if nobody’s got any objections. Amos, that wand’s told us all it can — if Harry could have it back, please —”

Mr. Diggory hands Harry his wand and Harry pockets it. “I’ll also take Ariana back with me as well.” Mr. Weasley says glancing at the grip we have on each other. “You have your hands full, and I’ll talk to Albus.” Mr. Diggory glances at Ariana for the first time and slowly nods his head.

“Come on, you five,” Mr. Weasley says quietly. But Hermione doesn’t seem to want to move; her eyes are still upon the sobbing elf. “Hermione!” Mr. Weasley says, more urgently. She turns and follows Harry and Ron out of the clearing, us behind them, and off through the trees.

I am still hobbling along with Ariana. “What’s going to happen to Winky?” asks Hermione, the moment we have left the clearing.

“I don’t know,” says Mr. Weasley.

“The way they were treating her!” says Hermione furiously. “Mr. Diggory, calling her ‘elf’ all the time . . . and Mr. Crouch! He knows she didn’t do it and he’s still going to sack her! He didn’t care how frightened she’d been, or how upset she was — it was like she wasn’t even human!”

“Well, she’s not,” says Ron. Hermione rounds on him. Oh boy, he’s in for it now. “That doesn’t mean she hasn’t got feelings, Ron. It’s disgusting the way —”

“Hermione, I agree with you,” says Mr. Weasley quickly, beckoning her on, “but now is not the time to discuss elf rights. I want to get back to the tent as fast as we can. What happened to the others?”

“We lost them in the dark,” sats Ron. “Dad, why was everyone so uptight about that skull thing?”

“I’ll explain everything back at the tent,” says Mr. Weasley tensely. But when we reach the edge of the wood, our progress is impeded. A large crowd of frightened-looking witches and wizards are congregated there, and when they see Mr. Weasley coming towards them, many of them surge forward.

“What’s going on in there?”

“Who conjured it?”

“Arthur — it’s not — Him?”

“Of course it’s not Him,” says Mr. Weasley impatiently. “We don’t know who it was; it looks like they Disapparated. Now excuse me, please, I want to get to bed.”

He leads us through the crowd and back into the campsite. All is quiet now; there is no sign of the masked wizards, though several ruined tents are still smoking.

Charlie’s head is poking out of the boys’ tent.

“Dad, what’s going on?” he calls through the dark. “Fred, George, Ginny, and Luka got back okay, but the others —”

“I’ve got them here,” says Mr. Weasley, bending down and entering the tent. Harry, Ron, Hermione, Ariana, and I enter after him.

Bill is sitting at the small kitchen table, holding a bedsheet to his arm, which is bleeding profusely. Charlie has a large rip in his shirt, and Percy is sporting a bloody nose. Fred, George, Ginny, and Luka look unhurt, though shaken. Luka gets up and runs over to me when he sees that I’m hurt.

“You’re hurt! Come sit down.” He says helping Ariana lead me over to a chair and down into it. I sigh when I’m finally able to get off of my aching leg.

“Did you get them, Dad?” says Bill sharply. “The person who conjured the Mark?”

“No,” says Mr. Weasley. “We found Barty Crouch’s elf holding Harry’s wand, but we’re none the wiser about who actually conjured the Mark.”

“What?” says Bill, Charlie, and Percy together.

“Harry’s wand?” says Fred.

“Mr. Crouch’s elf?” says Percy, sounding thunderstruck. With some assistance from Harry, Ron, and Hermione, Mr. Weasley explains what has happened in the woods. Ariana and I are perfectly happy to let the others explain. Besides I hurt too much to care at the moment. Ariana squeezes my hand, which she’s still holding.

When they have finished their story, Percy swells indignantly. “Well, Mr. Crouch is quite right to get rid of an elf like that!” he says. “Running away when he’d expressly told her not to . . . embarrassing him in front of the whole Ministry . . . how would that have looked, if she’d been brought up in front of the Department for the Regulation and Control —”

Well I never did like Percy much anyway. “She didn’t do anything — she was just in the wrong place at the wrong time!” Hermione snaps at Percy, who looks very taken aback. Hermione has always got on fairly well with Percy — better, indeed, than any of the others.

“Hermione, a wizard in Mr. Crouch’s position can’t afford a house-elf who’s going to run amok with a wand!” says Percy pompously, recovering himself. Oh please someone punch him in the nose again!

“She didn’t run amok!” shouts Hermione. “She just picked it up off the ground!”

“Look, can someone just explain what that skull thing was?” says Ron impatiently. “It wasn’t hurting anyone. . . . Why’s it such a big deal?”

“I told you, it’s You-Know-Who’s symbol, Ron,” says Hermione, before anyone else can answer. “I read about it in The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts.”

“And it hasn’t been seen for eleven years,” said Mr. Weasley quietly. “Of course people panicked . . . it was almost like seeing You-Know-Who back again.”

“I don’t get it,” says Ron, frowning. “I mean . . . it’s still only a shape in the sky. . . .”

“Its not. The last one… it was at our house. Voldemort was defeated but, it still strikes terror in people. He… he wanted our parents dead and he was so powerful that even after his disappearance that it was still carried out.” I say hollowly. Everyone turns to look at me shocked. Luka is starting straight ahead with his jaw locked. It’s not something that we like to remember. Ginny comes over to my other side, and hugs me to her tightly. I wrap my free arm around her, holding her close.

“Ron, You-Know-Who and his followers sent the Dark Mark into the air whenever they killed,” says Mr. Weasley. He is trying to steer the subject away from us. “The terror it inspired . . . you have no idea, you’re too young. Just picture coming home and finding the Dark Mark hovering over your house, and knowing what you’re about to find inside. . . .” Mr. Weasley winces. “Everyone’s worst fear . . . the very worst . . .”

There is silence for a moment. Then Bill, removing the sheet from his arm to check on his cut, says, “Well, it didn’t help us tonight, whoever conjured it. It scared the Death Eaters away the moment they saw it. They all Disapparated before we’d got near enough to unmask any of them. We caught the Robertses before they hit the ground, though. They’re having their memories modified right now.”

Thank Merlin they’re okay. “Death Eaters?” says Harry. “What are Death Eaters?” I wince thinking back to that fatefully night long ago.

“It’s what You-Know-Who’s supporters called themselves,” says Bill. “I think we saw what’s left of them tonight — the ones who managed to keep themselves out of Azkaban, anyway.”

“We can’t prove it was them, Bill,” says Mr. Weasley. “Though it probably was,” he adds hopelessly.

“Yeah, I bet it was!” says Ron suddenly. “Dad, we met Draco Malfoy in the woods, and he as good as told us his dad was one of those nutters in masks! And we all know the Malfoys were right in with You-Know-Who!”

Wait they met Malfoy in the woods? Well that explains a few things. I’ll get the whole story from them later.

“But what were Voldemort’s supporters —” Harry begins. Everybody flinches except for Ariana, Luka, and I — like most of the Wizarding world, the Weasleys always avoid saying Voldemort’s name. “Sorry,” says Harry quickly. “What were You-Know-Who’s supporters up to, levitating Muggles? I mean, what was the point?”

“The point?” says Mr. Weasley with a hollow laugh. “Harry, that’s their idea of fun. Half the Muggle killings back when You-Know-Who was in power were done for fun. I suppose they had a few drinks tonight and couldn’t resist reminding us all that lots of them are still at large. A nice little reunion for them,” he finishes disgustedly.

“But if they were the Death Eaters, why did they Disapparate when they saw the Dark Mark?” says Ron. “They’d have been pleased to see it, wouldn’t they?”

“Use your brains, Ron,” says Bill. “If they really were Death Eaters, they worked very hard to keep out of Azkaban when You-Know-Who lost power, and told all sorts of lies about him forcing them to kill and torture people. I bet they’d be even more frightened than the rest of us to see him come back. They denied they’d ever been involved with him when he lost his powers, and went back to their daily lives. . . . I don’t reckon he’d be over-pleased with them, do you?”

“So . . . whoever conjured the Dark Mark . . .” says Hermione slowly, “were they doing it to show support for the Death Eaters, or to scare them away?”

Hm… I hadn’t thought about that before. “Your guess is as good as ours, Hermione,” says Mr. Weasley. “But I’ll tell you this . . . it was only the Death Eaters who ever knew how to conjure it. I’d be very surprised if the person who did it hadn’t been a Death Eater once, even if they’re not now. . . . Listen, it’s very late, and if your mother hears what’s happened she’ll be worried sick. We’ll get a few more hours sleep and then try and get an early Portkey out of here.”

Hermione, Ginny, Ariana, and I all make our way slowly back into our tent. Ariana looks around since she hadn’t been in there before. We quickly shed our clothes back into pajamas and crawl into bed. I can’t get up the ladder, so I’m now sleeping on a bottom bunk across from Ginny. I can still tell that the four of us are awake but we don’t want to talk.

If we talk about it then that means that it all really happened. The Dark Mark has returned since it was last used at my house eleven years ago. I bite down on my lower lip. This isn’t going to be getting any better. Times are changing and growing darker. Let’s just hope that the light can always find a way in.


	8. Mayhem at the Ministry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything you recognize is J.K. Rowling's. Except Jamie, Luka, and Ariana.

Chapter 8- Mayhem at the Ministry

 

Mr. Weasley wakes us after only a few hours sleep (not that I slept). He uses magic to pack up the tents, and we leave the campsite as quickly as possible, passing Mr. Roberts at the door of his cottage. Mr. Roberts has a strange, dazed look about him, and he waves us off with a vague “Merry Christmas.”

“He’ll be all right,” says Mr. Weasley quietly as we march off onto the moor. “Sometimes, when a person’s memory’s modified, it makes him a bit disorientated for a while . . . and that was a big thing they had to make him forget.” A hand slips into mine and squeezes tightly. I glance over and see that it’s Hermione this time which is odd.

She has a pained look on her face and I instantly kick myself for forgetting momentarily that the Roberts’ were targeted for they were muggles. I squeeze back in silent support and glance around at all the solemn faces around me. Luka and Ariana are talking in hushed voices, their shoulders tense.

Part of me wishes to be with them since they understand how big and serious last night was for me, but I have other responsibilities, like making sure that my friends are okay.

We hear urgent voices as we approach the spot where the Portkeys lay, and when we reach it, we find a great number of witches and wizards gathered around Basil, the keeper of the Portkeys, all clamoring to get away from the campsite as quickly as possible. Mr. Weasley has a hurried discussion with Basil; we join the queue, and are able to take an old rubber tire back to Stoatshead Hill before the sun has really risen.

We walk back through Ottery St. Catchpole and up the damp lane towards the Burrow in the dawn light, talking very little because we are so exhausted, and thinking longingly of breakfast. As we round the corner and the Burrow comes into view, a cry echoes along the lane. My sleep deprived mind winces at the shrill sound.

“Oh thank goodness, thank goodness!” Mrs. Weasley, who has evidently been waiting for them in the front yard, comes running towards us, still wearing her bedroom slippers, her face pale and strained, a rolled-up copy of the Daily Prophet clutched in her hand.

“Arthur — I’ve been so worried — so worried —” She flings her arms around Mr. Weasley’s neck, and the Daily Prophet falls out of her limp hand onto the ground.  Looking down, Harry sees the headline: SCENES OF TERROR AT THE QUIDDITCH WORLD CUP, complete with a twinkling black-and-white photograph of the Dark Mark over the treetops.

“You’re all right,” Mrs. Weasley mutters distractedly, releasing Mr. Weasley and staring around at us all with red eyes, “you’re alive. . . . Oh boys . . .” And to everybody’s surprise, she seizes Fred and George and pulled them both into such a tight hug that their heads bang together.

“Ouch! Mum — you’re strangling us —”

“I shouted at you before you left!” Mrs. Weasley says, starting to sob. “It’s all I’ve been thinking about! What if You-Know-Who had got you, and the last thing I ever said to you was that you didn’t get enough O.W.L.s? Oh Fred . . . George . . .”

“Come on, now, Molly, we’re all perfectly okay,” says Mr. Weasley soothingly, prying her off the twins and leading her back towards the house. “Bill,” he adds in an undertone, “pick up that paper, I want to see what it says. . . .”

After tearful and very tight hugs for everyone of us (I nearly felt my lung collapse), we were finally steered into the house.

When we are all crammed into the tiny kitchen, and I make Mrs. Weasley a cup of very strong tea, into which Mr. Weasley insists on pouring a shot of Ogdens Old Firewhisky, Bill hands his father the newspaper. Mr. Weasley scans the front page while Percy looks over his shoulder.

“I knew it,” says Mr. Weasley heavily. “Ministry blunders . . . culprits not apprehended . . . lax security . . . Dark wizards running unchecked . . . national disgrace . . . Who wrote this? Ah . . . of course . . . Rita Skeeter.”

“That woman’s got it in for the Ministry of Magic!” says Percy furiously. “Last week she was saying we’re wasting our time quibbling about cauldron thickness, when we should be stamping out vampires! As if it wasn’t specifically stated in paragraph twelve of the Guidelines for the Treatment of Non-Wizard Part-Humans —”

I hate Rita Skeeter just as much as I’m beginning to despise Percy.

“Do us a favor, Perce,” says Bill, yawning, “and shut up.”

“I’m mentioned,” says Mr. Weasley, his eyes widening behind his glasses as he reachs the bottom of the Daily Prophet article.

“Where?” splutters Mrs. Weasley, choking on her tea and whisky. “If I’d seen that, I’d have known you were alive!”

“Not by name,” says Mr. Weasley. “Listen to this: ‘If the terrified wizards and witches who waited breathlessly for news at the edge of the wood expected reassurance from the Ministry of Magic, they were sadly disappointed. A Ministry official emerged some time after the appearance of the Dark Mark alleging that nobody had been hurt, but refusing to give any more information. Whether this statement will be enough to quash the rumors that several bodies were removed from the woods an hour later, remains to be seen.’ Oh really,” says Mr. Weasley in exasperation, handing the paper to Percy. “Nobody was hurt. What was I supposed to say? Rumors that several bodies were removed from the woods . . . well, there certainly will be rumors now she’s printed that.”

He heaves a deep sigh. “Molly, I’m going to have to go into the office; this is going to take some smoothing over.”

“I’ll come with you, Father,” says Percy importantly. “Mr. Crouch will need all hands on deck. And I can give him my cauldron report in person.” He bustles out of the kitchen. Mrs. Weasley looks most upset.

“Arthur, you’re supposed to be on holiday! This hasn’t got anything to do with your office; surely they can handle this without you?”

“I’ve got to go, Molly,” says Mr. Weasley. “I’ve made things worse. I’ll just change into my robes and I’ll be off. . . .”

“Mrs. Weasley,” says Harry suddenly, “Hedwig hasn’t arrived with a letter for me, has she?”

“Hedwig, dear?” says Mrs. Weasley distractedly. “No . . . no, there hasn’t been any post at all.”

Ron, Hermione, and I look curiously at Harry. With a meaningful look at us he says, “All right if I go and dump my stuff in your room, Ron?”

“Yeah . . . think I will too,” says Ron at once. “Hermione?”

“Yes,” she says quickly, and the three of them march out of the kitchen and up the stairs. I hesitate a second seeing as no one is really paying attention to me and follow them.

“What’s up, Harry?” says Ron, the moment we have closed the door of the attic room behind us. The room is still as cramped as ever.

“There’s something I haven’t told you,” Harry says. “On Saturday morning, I woke up with my scar hurting again.” Oh no here we go again.

Hermione gasps and starts making suggestions at once, mentioning a number of reference books, and everybody from Albus Dumbledore to Madam Pomfrey, the Hogwarts nurse. Ron simply looks dumbstruck.

“But — he wasn’t there, was he? You-Know-Who? I mean — last time your scar kept hurting, he was at Hogwarts, wasn’t he?”

“I’m sure he wasn’t on Privet Drive,” says Harry. “But I was dreaming about him . . . him and Peter — you know, Wormtail. I can’t remember all of it now, but they were plotting to kill . . . someone.”

Well that is unpleasant and there goes my thoughts of this being a nice normal day instead of a crazy and dangerous one.

“It was only a dream,” I say bracingly. “Just a nightmare.”

“Yeah, but was it, though?” says Harry, turning to look out of the window at the brightening sky. “It’s weird, isn’t it? . . . My scar hurts, and three days later the Death Eaters are on the march, and Voldemort’s sign’s up in the sky again.”

“Don’t — say — his — name!” Ron hisses through gritted teeth.

“And remember what Professor Trelawney said?” Harry goes on, ignoring Ron. “At the end of last year?”

Professor Trelawney is our Divination teacher at Hogwarts. Hermione’s terrified look vanishes as she lets out a derisive snort. Here we go this is going to be a long rant.

“Oh Harry, you aren’t going to pay attention to anything that old fraud says?”

“You weren’t there,” says Harry. “You didn’t hear her. This time was different. I told you, she went into a trance — a real one. And she said the Dark Lord would rise again . . . greater and more terrible than ever before . . . and he’d manage it because his servant was going to go back to him . . . and that night Wormtail escaped.”

There is a silence in which Ron fidgets absentmindedly with a hole in his Chudley Cannons bedspread.

“It wasn’t your fault Harry. You’re not supposed to know everything.” I tell him softly. Harry cuts me a sharp look.

“Why were you asking if Hedwig had come, Harry?” Hermione asks, taking the attention away from me. “Are you expecting a letter?”

“I told Sirius about my scar,” says Harry, shrugging. “I’m waiting for his answer.”

“Good thinking!” says Ron, his expression clearing. “I bet Sirius’ll know what to do!”

“I hoped he’d get back to me quickly,” sighs Harry. I bite my lower lip thinking about the man that we helped free last year. I know that he’s Harry’s godfather and all, but he still creeps me out since the whole knifing the portrait and almost attacking me thing.

“But we don’t know where Sirius is . . . he could be in Africa or somewhere, couldn’t he?” says Hermione reasonably. “Hedwig’s not going to manage that journey in a few days.”

“Yeah, I know,” says Harry, looking at the empty cage that should be housing Hedwig.

“Come and have a game of Quidditch in the orchard, Harry,” says Ron. “Come on — three on three, Bill and Charlie and Fred and George will play. . . . You can try out the Wronski Feint. . . . and Jamie will ref…”

“Ron,” says Hermione, in an I-don’t-think-you’re-being-very-sensitive sort of voice, “Harry doesn’t want to play Quidditch right now. . . . He’s worried, and he’s tired. . . . We all need to go to bed. . . .”

“Yeah, I want to play Quidditch,” says Harry suddenly. “Hang on, I’ll get my Firebolt.”

Hermione leaves the room, muttering something that sounds very much like “Boys.”

Suddenly I’m not as tired as I originally was. Quidditch even refereeing it is better than sleeping.

* * *

 

Neither Mr. Weasley nor Percy is at home much over the following week. Both leave the house each morning before the rest of the family gets up, and returns well after dinner every night. Ariana had gone back home a few days ago, promising to see us soon and owl us.

“It’s been an absolute uproar,” Percy tells us importantly the Sunday evening before we are due to return to Hogwarts. “I’ve been putting out fires all week. People keep sending Howlers, and of course, if you don’t open a Howler straight away, it explodes. Scorch marks all over my desk and my best quill reduced to cinders.”

“Why are they all sending Howlers?” asks Ginny, who is mending her copy of One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi with Spellotape on the rug in front of the living room fire.

“Complaining about security at the World Cup,” says Percy. “They want compensation for their ruined property. Mundungus Fletcher’s put in a claim for a twelve-bedroomed tent with en-suite Jacuzzi, but I’ve got his number. I know for a fact he was sleeping under a cloak propped on sticks.”

Mrs. Weasley glances at the grandfather clock in the corner. I like this clock. It is completely useless if you want to know the time, but otherwise very informative. It has nine golden hands, and each of them is engraved with one of the Weasley family’s names. There are no numerals around the face, but descriptions of where each family member might be. “Home,” “school,” and “work” are there, but there is also “traveling,” “lost,” “hospital,” “prison,” and, in the position where the number twelve would be on a normal clock, “mortal peril.”

Eight of the hands are currently pointing to the “home” position, but Mr. Weasley’s, which is the longest, is still pointing to “work.” Mrs. Weasley sighs.

“Your father hasn’t had to go into the office on weekends since the days of You-Know-Who,” she says. “They’re working him far too hard. His dinner’s going to be ruined if he doesn’t come home soon.”

“Well, Father feels he’s got to make up for his mistake at the match, doesn’t he?” says Percy. “If truth be told, he was a tad unwise to make a public statement without clearing it with his Head of Department first —”

I scowl at Percy from my place next to Ginny. I swear that I’m going to hex him the minute I’m allowed to do magic outside of school. Your number is coming up Perce.

“Don’t you dare blame your father for what that wretched Skeeter woman wrote!” says Mrs. Weasley, flaring up at once.

“If Dad hadn’t said anything, old Rita would just have said it was disgraceful that nobody from the Ministry had commented,” says Bill, who is playing chess with Ron. “Rita Skeeter never makes anyone look good. Remember, she interviewed all the Gringotts Charm Breakers once, and called me ‘a long-haired pillock’?”

“Well, it is a bit long, dear,” says Mrs. Weasley gently. “If you’d just let me —”

“No, Mum.”

Rain lashes against the living room window. Hermione is immersed in The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 4, copies of which Mrs. Weasley has bought for her, Harry, Ron, Luka, and me in Diagon Alley. Charlie is darning a fireproof balaclava. Harry is polishing his Firebolt, the broomstick servicing kit Hermione had given him for his thirteenth birthday open at his feet. Fred and George are sitting in a far corner, quills out, talking in whispers, their heads bent over a piece of parchment.

“What are you two up to?” says Mrs. Weasley sharply, her eyes on the twins.

“Homework,” says Fred vaguely.

“Don’t be ridiculous, you’re still on holiday,” says Mrs. Weasley.

“Yeah, we’ve left it a bit late,” says George. “Besides Mum, Jamie is far more nefarious with her miniature paper army over there.” He says gesturing to my charmed paper figurines.

I glare at the two boys. “Just for that you two are on my list. Just wait until we get back to school.” I hiss at them. Fred and George mime terrified looks.

“Boys stop picking on Jamie, and Jamie I better not get a letter from that school saying you’ve been fighting with magic.” Mrs. Weasley snaps sternly eyeing the three of us.

“Yes Mrs. Weasley.” I reply quickly heat rising to my cheeks shortly from being chastised like that. Its still odd living here and getting used to the fact that Mr. and Mrs. Weasley are now our guardians.

I huff softly and watch my paper troll toss paper Harry into the air. Harry glances over at it and frowns. “I thought you destroyed that!” He cries. I grin at him and stick my tongue out at him.

“You were being a prat, besides this is some of my best work, I’m not going to just throw it away.” I point out.

“You’re not by any chance writing out a new order form, are you?” says Mrs. Weasley shrewdly refocusing on the twins. “You wouldn’t be thinking of re-starting Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes, by any chance?”

“Now, Mum,” says Fred, looking up at her, a pained look on his face. “If the Hogwarts Express crashed tomorrow, and George and I died, how would you feel to know that the last thing we ever heard from you was an unfounded accusation?”

Everyone laughs, even Mrs. Weasley.

“Oh your father’s coming!” she says suddenly, looking up at the clock again.

Mr. Weasley’s hand has suddenly spun from “work” to “traveling”; a second later it has shuddered to a halt on “home” with the others, and we hear him calling from the kitchen.

“Coming, Arthur!” calls Mrs. Weasley, hurrying out of the room. A few moments later, Mr. Weasley comes into the warm living room carrying his dinner on a tray. He looks completely exhausted.

“Well, the fat’s really in the fire now,” he tells Mrs. Weasley as he sits down in an armchair near the hearth and toys unenthusiastically with his somewhat shriveled cauliflower. “Rita Skeeter’s been ferreting around all week, looking for more Ministry mess-ups to report. And now she’s found out about poor old Bertha going missing, so that’ll be the headline in the Prophet tomorrow. I told Bagman he should have sent someone to look for her ages ago.”

They still haven’t found the poor woman yet? What on earth is wrong with these people?

“Mr. Crouch has been saying it for weeks and weeks,” says Percy swiftly.

“Crouch is very lucky Rita hasn’t found out about Winky,” says Mr. Weasley irritably. “There’d be a week’s worth of headlines in his house-elf being caught holding the wand that conjured the Dark Mark.”

“I thought we were all agreed that that elf, while irresponsible, did not conjure the Mark?” says Percy hotly.

“If you ask me, Mr. Crouch is very lucky no one at the Daily Prophet knows how mean he is to elves!” says Hermione angrily. Oh Merlin please not this again! I can’t seem to get a moment’s peace around here. Ginny and I exchange grim expressions and huddle together preparing to mime out the fight that’s about to occur.

“Now look here, Hermione!” says Percy. “A high-ranking Ministry official like Mr. Crouch deserves unswerving obedience from his servants —”

“His slave, you mean!” snaps Hermione, her voice rising passionately, “because he didn’t pay Winky, did he?”

“I think you’d all better go upstairs and check that you’ve packed properly!” says Mrs. Weasley, breaking up the argument. “Come on now, all of you. . . .”

Ginny and I climb the stairs to our room Hermione staying back downstairs for a moment to keep arguing with Percy. I honestly don’t understand how she can stand to still be in the same room with him for prolonged periods of time.

When we get to the room I go through all the supplies that Mrs. Weasley got me at Diagon Alley while we were away. Apart from The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 4, by Miranda Goshawk, I have a handful of new quills, a dozen rolls of parchment, and refills for his potion-making kit — I had been running low on spine of lionfish and essence of belladonna.

I’m shocked to see that there is a requirement for a dress this year. I have no idea why. A knock sounds from the door and Mrs. Weasley enters along with Hermione. “Why a dress?” I ask honestly clueless about this new requirement for school. Both Ginny and Hermione look stumped as well.

“Oh no reason. They just want you to look appropriate this year for an event that they have. Now I assume that you’ll all want to get you’re dresses there so I didn’t buy you any.” She tells us smiling softly and leaving the room. I pale at the thought of some unknown event requiring a fancy dress code.

“What the bloody hell are they having us do this year?” I demand.


	9. Aboard the Hogwarts Express

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything you recognize is J.K. Rowling's. Except Jamie, Luka, and Ariana.

Chapter 9-Aboard the Hogwarts Express

 

There is a definite end-of-the-holidays gloom in the air when I wake up next morning. Heavy rain is still splattering against the window as I get dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt; we will change into our school robes on the Hogwarts Express. I make sure that Ginny is up seeing that Hermione is already beginning to stress out on last minute checks of her trunk for all her school needs.

Finally when Ginny resembles something of a dressed zombie, I manage to pry Hermione away from her frantic worrying and we are able to make our way downstairs. I want breakfast before having to go back to school. I don’t care who I have to fight in order to get some.

We run into Harry, Ron, Fred, George, and Luka on the first floor landing. Before any of us can say anything though we’re interrupted.

Mrs. Weasley appears at the foot of the stairs, looking harassed. “Arthur!” she calls up the staircase. “Arthur! Urgent message from the Ministry!”

I flatten myself against the wall as Mr. Weasley comes clattering past with his robes on back-to-front and hurtles out of sight. When we enter the kitchen, we see Mrs. Weasley rummaging anxiously in the drawers — “I’ve got a quill here somewhere!” — and Mr. Weasley bending over the fire, talking to Mr. Diggory. I scowl he’s really not my favorite person.

Amos Diggory’s head is sitting in the middle of the flames like a large, bearded egg. It is talking very fast, completely unperturbed by the sparks flying around it and the flames licking its ears.

“. . . Muggle neighbors heard bangs and shouting, so they went and called those what-d’you-call-’ems — please-men. Arthur, you’ve got to get over there —”

“Here!” says Mrs. Weasley breathlessly, pushing a piece of parchment, a bottle of ink, and a crumpled quill into Mr. Weasley’s hands.

“— it’s a real stroke of luck I heard about it,” says Mr. Diggory’s head. “I had to come into the office early to send a couple of owls, and I found the Improper Use of Magic lot all setting off — if Rita Skeeter gets hold of this one, Arthur —”

“What does Mad-Eye say happened?” asks Mr. Weasley, unscrewing the ink bottle, loading up his quill, and preparing to take notes.

Mr. Diggory’s head rolls its eyes. “Says he heard an intruder in his yard. Says he was creeping toward the house, but was ambushed by his dustbins.”

“What did the dustbins do?” asks Mr. Weasley, scribbling frantically.

“Made one hell of a noise and fired rubbish everywhere, as far as I can tell,” says Mr. Diggory. “Apparently one of them was still rocketing around when the please-men turned up —” Mr. Weasley groans.

I shoot a confused look to Hermione and she mouths police to me. Oh… I still don’t truly understand why they’re important.

“And what about the intruder?” Mr. Weasley asks.

“Arthur, you know Mad-Eye,” says Mr. Diggory’s head, rolling its eyes again. “Someone creeping into his yard in the dead of night? More likely there’s a very shell-shocked cat wandering around somewhere, covered in potato peelings. But if the Improper Use of Magic lot get their hands on Mad-Eye, he’s had it — think of his record — we’ve got to get him off on a minor charge, something in your department — what are exploding dustbins worth?”

“Might be a caution,” says Mr. Weasley, still writing very fast, his brow furrowed. “Mad-Eye didn’t use his wand? He didn’t actually attack anyone?”

“I’ll bet he leapt out of bed and started jinxing everything he could reach through the window,” says Mr. Diggory, “but they’ll have a job proving it, there aren’t any casualties.”

This Mad-Eye fellow sounds insane. “All right, I’m off,” Mr. Weasley says, and he stuffs the parchment with his notes on it into his pocket and dashes out of the kitchen again.

Mr. Diggory’s head looks around at Mrs. Weasley.

“Sorry about this, Molly,” it says, more calmly, “bothering you so early and everything . . . but Arthur’s the only one who can get Mad-Eye off, and Mad-Eye’s supposed to be starting his new job today. Why he had to choose last night . . .”

“Never mind, Amos,” says Mrs. Weasley. “Sure you won’t have a bit of toast or anything before you go?”

“Oh go on, then,” says Mr. Diggory. Mrs. Weasley takes a piece of buttered toast from a stack on the kitchen table, puts it into the fire tongs, and transfers it into Mr. Diggory’s mouth.

“Fanks,” he says in a muffled voice, and then, with a small pop, vanishes.

I can hear Mr. Weasley calling hurried good-byes to Bill, Charlie, Percy, and us girls.

“I’d better hurry — you have a good term, boys,” says Mr. Weasley to Harry, Ron, Luka, and the twins, fastening a cloak over his shoulders and preparing to Disapparate. “Molly, are you going to be all right taking the kids to King’s Cross?”

“Of course I will,” she says. “You just look after Mad-Eye, we’ll be fine.” As Mr. Weasley vanishes, Bill and Charlie enter the kitchen.

“Did someone say Mad-Eye?” Bill asks. “What’s he been up to now?” So they all know Mad-Eye. Luka and I have only met him a few times when we were out with Kingsley. He was always talking about how my brother and I needed to practice ‘Constant Vigilance’ and protect ourselves from the danger following us. I guess the crazy man was right after all.

“He says someone tried to break into his house last night,” says Mrs. Weasley.

“Mad-Eye Moody?” says George thoughtfully, spreading marmalade on his toast. “Isn’t he that nutter —”

I bite into my toast and then eat some of the eggs on my plate. “Your father thinks very highly of Mad-Eye Moody,” says Mrs. Weasley sternly.

“Yeah, well, Dad collects plugs, doesn’t he?” says Fred quietly as Mrs. Weasley leaves the room. They’re really trying to push their luck here. “Birds of a feather . . .”

“Moody was a great wizard in his time,” says Bill.

“He’s an old friend of Dumbledore’s, isn’t he?” says Charlie.

“Dumbledore’s not what you’d call normal, though, is he?” points out Fred. “I mean, I know he’s a genius and everything . . .”

“Who is Mad-Eye?” asks Harry.

“He’s retired, used to work at the Ministry,” says Charlie. “I met him once when Dad took me in to work with him. He was an Auror — one of the best . . . a Dark wizard catcher,” he adds, seeing Harry’s blank look. “Half the cells in Azkaban are full because of him. He made himself loads of enemies, though . . . the families of people he caught, mainly . . . and I heard he’s been getting really paranoid in his old age. Doesn’t trust anyone anymore. Sees Dark wizards everywhere.”

Bill and Charlie decide to come and see everyone off at King’s Cross station, but Percy, apologizing most profusely, said that he really needs to get to work.

“I just can’t justify taking more time off at the moment,” he tells us. “Mr. Crouch is really starting to rely on me.”

Not that I’m really heartbroken about that fact that he won’t be there to see us off or anything. I’m actually quite happy about the turn of events.

“Yeah, you know what, Percy?” says George seriously. “I reckon he’ll know your name soon.”

Mrs. Weasley has braved the telephone in the village post office to order three ordinary Muggle taxis to take us into London.

“Arthur tried to borrow Ministry cars for us,” Mrs. Weasley whispers to me as we stand in the rain-washed yard, watching the taxi drivers heaving eight heavy Hogwarts trunks into their cars. “But there weren’t any to spare. . . . Oh dear, they don’t look happy, do they?”

I don’t think to tell Mrs. Weasley that Muggle taxi drivers rarely transport overexcited owls, and Pigwidgeon is making an earsplitting racket. Nor does it help that a number of Filibuster’s Fabulous Wet-Start, No-Heat Fireworks go off unexpectedly when Fred’s trunk springs open, causing the driver carrying it to yell with fright and pain as Crookshanks claws his way up the man’s leg.

The journey is uncomfortable, owing to the fact that we are jammed in the back of the taxis with our trunks. Crookshanks takes quite a while to recover from the fireworks, and by the time we enter London, Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I are all severely scratched. We are very relieved to get out at King’s Cross, even though the rain is coming down harder than ever, and we get soaked carrying our trunks across the busy road and into the station.

Anything is better than that bloody taxi though. Never riding in one of those again unless my life depends on it. I’ll take Fluffy the demon hound any day thank you very much.

When we get to the divider that gets us onto the platform Harry, Hermione, Ron, and I go first since we have Crookshanks, Hedwig, Pig, and Dionysus. We slide through the barrier chatting to each other and find ourselves on the other side of the barrier on platform 9 and 3/4.

The Hogwarts Express, a gleaming scarlet steam engine, is already there, clouds of steam billowing from it, through which the many Hogwarts students and parents on the platform appear like dark ghosts. Pigwidgeon becomes noisier than ever in response to the hooting of many owls through the mist. Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I set off to find seats, and are soon stowing our luggage in a compartment halfway along the train. We then hop back down onto the platform to say good-bye to Mrs. Weasley, Bill, and Charlie.

Mrs. Weasley wraps Luka and I up in big tight hugs with kisses to each of our cheeks, which makes us blush. “Have a good year you two. If you need anything at all we’re only an owl away. Write lots and, learn much, and have fun.” She tells us tears beginning to well up in our eyes.

“We will Mrs. Weasley.” Luka promises her giving her a smile. I nod my head in confirmation of his statement.

“Don’t worry I’ll keep him in line.” I say, and the three of us break out into laughter at the absurdity of that thought. I wander back over to the rest of the group.

“I might be seeing you all sooner than you think,” says Charlie, grinning, as he hugs Ginny good-bye.

“Why?” asks Fred keenly.

“You’ll see,” says Charlie. “Just don’t tell Percy I mentioned it . . . it’s ‘classified information, until such time as the Ministry sees fit to release it,’ after all.”

“Yeah, I sort of wish I were back at Hogwarts this year,” says Bill, hands in his pockets, looking almost wistfully at the train.

“Why?” I ask starting to get annoyed.

“You’re going to have an interesting year,” says Bill, his eyes twinkling. “I might even get time off to come and watch a bit of it. . . .”

“A bit of what?” asks Ron. But at that moment, the whistle blows, and Mrs. Weasley chivvies us towards the train doors.

“Thanks for having us to stay, Mrs. Weasley,” says Hermione as we climb on board, close the door, and lean out of the window to talk to her.

“Yeah, thanks for everything, Mrs. Weasley,” says Harry.

“Oh it was my pleasure, dears,” says Mrs. Weasley. “I’d invite you for Christmas, but . . . well, I expect you’re all going to want to stay at Hogwarts, what with . . . one thing and another.”

“Mum!” says Ron irritably. “What d’you three know that we don’t?”

“You’ll find out this evening, I expect,” says Mrs. Weasley, smiling. “It’s going to be very exciting — mind you, I’m very glad they’ve changed the rules —”

“What rules?” ask Harry, Ron, Fred, George, and I together.

“I’m sure Professor Dumbledore will tell you. . . . Now, behave, won’t you? Won’t you, Fred? And you, George?” The pistons hiss loudly and the train begins to move.

“Tell us what’s happening at Hogwarts!” Fred bellows out of the window as Mrs. Weasley, Bill, and Charlie speed away from us. “What rules are they changing?”

But Mrs. Weasley only smiles and waves. Before the train has rounded the corner, she, Bill, and Charlie have Disapparated.

Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I go back to our compartment. The thick rain splattering the windows make it very difficult to see out of them. Ron undoes his trunk, pulls out his maroon dress robes, and flings them over Pigwidgeon’s cage to muffle his hooting. I got over to them and examine the frilly lace on the edges.

“Don’t you dare!” Ron growls at me, but it’s too late. The laugh erupts from my belly and soon I’m on the ground gasping for air picturing Ron wearing those robes.

“You— you— ahahahahaha! Oh Merlin— that’s…” I sputter before bursting into more laughter.

“Shut it! Argh! You’re such a pain Jamie.” Ron snarls throwing another of his robes at me. I catch it and grin at him evily.

“You’ll be the prettiest boy there Ronald.” I assure him, only to catch a shoe being thrown at my head. Ron glares at me one last time before turning back to Harry.

“Bagman wanted to tell us what’s happening at Hogwarts,” he says grumpily, sitting down next to Harry. “At the World Cup, remember? But my own mother won’t say. Wonder what —”

“Shh!” Hermione whispers suddenly, pressing her finger to her lips and pointing toward the compartment next to theirs. I get up from the ground and slide onto the bench next to her. Harry, Ron, and I listen, and hear a familiar drawling voice drifting in through the open door. That weasel.

“. . . Father actually considered sending me to Durmstrang rather than Hogwarts, you know. He knows the headmaster, you see. Well, you know his opinion of Dumbledore — the man’s such a Mudblood-lover — and Durmstrang doesn’t admit that sort of riffraff. But Mother didn’t like the idea of me going to school so far away. Father says Durmstrang takes a far more sensible line than Hogwarts about the Dark Arts. Durmstrang students actually learn them, not just the defense rubbish we do. . . .”

Hermione gets up, tiptoes to the compartment door, and slides it shut, blocking out Malfoy’s voice. That’s good I don’t want to get a headache before I even get back to school yet.

“So he thinks Durmstrang would have suited him, does he?” she says angrily. “I wish he had gone, then we wouldn’t have to put up with him.” I grimace and shake my head.

“Imagine Malfoy learning the Dark Arts. That’d be more dangerous than being in school now.

“Durmstrang’s another Wizarding school?” asks Harry.

“Yes,” I say explaining, “and it’s got a horrible reputation. According to An Appraisal of Magical Education in Europe, it puts a lot of emphasis on the Dark Arts.”

“I think I’ve heard of it,” says Ron vaguely. “Where is it? What country?”

“Well, nobody knows, do they?” says Hermione, raising her eyebrows.

“Er — why not?” says Harry.

“There’s traditionally been a lot of rivalry between all the magic schools. Durmstrang and Beauxbatons like to conceal their whereabouts so nobody can steal their secrets,” explains Hermione matter-of-factly.

“Come off it,” says Ron, starting to laugh. “Durmstrang’s got to be about the same size as Hogwarts — how are you going to hide a great big castle?”

“But Hogwarts is hidden,” says Hermione, in surprise. “Everyone knows that . . . well, everyone who’s read Hogwarts: A History, anyway.”

“Just you, then,” says Ron. “So go on — how d’you hide a place like Hogwarts?”

“It’s bewitched,” I say jumping into the conversation. “If a Muggle looks at it, all they see is a moldering old ruin with a sign over the entrance saying DANGER, DO NOT ENTER, UNSAFE.”

“So Durmstrang’ll just look like a ruin to an outsider too?” Ron asks.

“Maybe,” says Hermione, shrugging, “or it might have Muggle-repelling charms on it, like the World Cup stadium. And to keep foreign wizards from finding it, they’ll have made it Unplottable —”

“Come again?”

“Well, you can enchant a building so it’s impossible to plot on a map, can’t you?”

“Er . . . if you say so,” says Harry.

“But I think Durmstrang must be somewhere in the far north,” says Hermione thoughtfully. “Somewhere very cold, because they’ve got fur capes as part of their uniforms.”

“Ah, think of the possibilities,” says Ron dreamily. “It would’ve been so easy to push Malfoy off a glacier and make it look like an accident. . . . Shame his mother likes him. . . .”

I snort and nod in agreement to that statement. The rain becomes heavier and heavier as the train moves farther north. The sky is so dark and the windows so steamy that the lanterns are lit by midday. The lunch trolley comes rattling along the corridor, and Harry buys a large stack of Cauldron Cakes for us to share.

I feel bad that he always buys me stuff but Harry won’t hear a word of it. I’m rich as well but I can’t access most of my money until I come of age along with Luka, and then I only have half.

Several of our friends look in on us as the afternoon progresses, including Seamus Finnigan, Dean Thomas, and Neville Longbottom, a round-faced, extremely forgetful boy who has been brought up by his formidable witch of a grandmother.  Seamus is still wearing his Ireland rosette. Some of its magic seems to be wearing off now; it is still squeaking “Troy — Mullet — Moran!” but in a very feeble and exhausted sort of way. After half an hour or so, Hermione, growing tired of the endless Quidditch talk, buries herself once more in The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 4, and starts trying to learn a Summoning Charm.

Neville listens jealously to the others’ conversation as we relive the Cup match.

“Gran didn’t want to go,” he says miserably. “Wouldn’t buy tickets. It sounds amazing though.”

“Its okay Neville there’s always next time.” I tell him patting him on the shoulder.

“It was,” says Ron. “Look at this, Neville. . . .” He rummages in his trunk up in the luggage rack and pulls out the miniature figure of Viktor Krum. Oh how I wish to squash that figure by now. All he ever does is fawn over it.

“Oh wow,” says Neville enviously as Ron tips Krum onto his pudgy hand.

“We saw him right up close, as well,” brags Ron. “We were in the Top Box —”

“For the first and last time in your life, Weasley.”

Draco Malfoy has appeared in the doorway. Behind him stand Crabbe and Goyle, his enormous, thuggish cronies, both of whom appear to have grown at least a foot during the summer. Evidently they have overheard the conversation through the compartment door, which Dean and Seamus have left ajar.

“Don’t remember asking you to join us, Malfoy,” says Harry coolly.

“This is a strict no smarmy weasel zone Malfoy.” I tell him glaring harshly at him.

“Weasley . . . what is that?” says Malfoy, pointing at Pigwidgeon’s cage. A sleeve of Ron’s dress robes is dangling from it, swaying with the motion of the train, the moldy lace cuff very obvious.

Ron makes to stuff the robes out of sight, but Malfoy is too quick for him; he seizes the sleeve and pulls.

“Look at this!” says Malfoy in ecstasy, holding up Ron’s robes and showing Crabbe and Goyle, “Weasley, you weren’t thinking of wearing these, were you? I mean — they were very fashionable in about 1890. . . .”

“Eat dung, Malfoy!” says Ron, the same color as the dress robes as he snatches them back out of Malfoy’s grip. Malfoy howls with derisive laughter; Crabbe and Goyle guffawed stupidly. No one is allowed to make fun of my friend like that only me.

“Platinum blond hair went out of style years ago Malfoy, too bad Mummy didn’t tell you.” I growl. Malfoy ignores me though and focuses on Ron.

“So . . . going to enter, Weasley? Going to try and bring a bit of glory to the family name? There’s money involved as well, you know . . . you’d be able to afford some decent robes if you won. . . .”

“What are you talking about?” snaps Ron.

“Are you going to enter?” Malfoy repeats. “I suppose you will, Potter? You never miss a chance to show off, do you?”

“Either explain what you’re on about or go away, Malfoy,” says Hermione testily, over the top of The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 4. A gleeful smile spreads across Malfoy’s pale face.

“Don’t tell me you don’t know?” he says delightedly. “You’ve got a father and brother at the Ministry and you don’t even know? My God, my father told me about it ages ago . . . heard it from Cornelius Fudge. But then, Father’s always associated with the top people at the Ministry. . . . Maybe your father’s too junior to know about it, Weasley . . . yes . . . they probably don’t talk about important stuff in front of him. . . .”

Okay he’s going to get hit. He’s not going to talk about a man that took my brother and me into his home out of the good of his heart like that.

Laughing once more, Malfoy beckons to Crabbe and Goyle, and the three of them disappear.

Ron gets to his feet and slams the sliding compartment door so hard behind them that the glass shatters. I jump at the abrupt noise.

“Ron!” says Hermione reproachfully, and she pulls out her wand, muttering “Reparo!” and the glass shards fly back into a single pane and back into the door.

“Well . . . making it look like he knows everything and we don’t. . . .” Ron snarls.  “‘Father’s always associated with the top people at the Ministry.’ . . . Dad could’ve got a promotion any time . . . he just likes it where he is. . . .”

“Of course he does,” I say quietly. “Don’t let Malfoy get to you, Ron —”

“Him! Get to me!? As if!” says Ron, picking up one of the remaining Cauldron Cakes and squashing it into a pulp.

Ron’s bad mood continues for the rest of the journey. He doesn’t talk much as we change into our school robes, and is still glowering when the Hogwarts Express slows down at last and finally stops in the pitch-darkness of Hogsmeade station.

As the train doors open, there is a rumble of thunder overhead. Hermione bundles up Crookshanks in her cloak and Ron leaves his dress robes over Pigwidgeon as we leave the train, heads bent and eyes narrowed against the downpour. The rain is now coming down so thick and fast that it is as though buckets of ice-cold water is being emptied repeatedly over our heads.

“Hi, Hagrid!” Harry yells, seeing a gigantic silhouette at the far end of the platform.

“All righ’, Harry?” Hagrid bellows back, waving. “See yeh at the feast if we don’ drown!”

First years traditionally reach Hogwarts Castle by sailing across the lake with Hagrid.

“Oooh, I wouldn’t fancy crossing the lake in this weather,” says Hermione fervently, shivering as we inch slowly along the dark platform with the rest of the crowd. A hundred horseless carriages stand waiting for us outside the station. Harry, Ron, Hermione, Neville, and I climb gratefully into one of them, the door shut with a snap, and a few moments later, with a great lurch, the long procession of carriages is rumbling and splashing its way up the track towards Hogwarts Castle.

Well at least this year is going to be interesting to say the least. But all I really want at the moment is to be warm and dry, and have a nice full stomach.


	10. The Triwizard Tournament

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything you recognize is J.K. Rowling's. Except Jamie, Luka, and Ariana.

Chapter 10- The Triwizard Tournament

 

Through the gates, flanked with statues of winged boars, and up the sweeping drive the carriages trundle, swaying dangerously in what is fast becoming a gale. Leaning against the window, I can see Hogwarts coming nearer, its many lighted windows blurred and shimmering behind the thick curtain of rain. Lightning flashes across the sky as our carriage comes to a halt before the great oak front doors, which stand at the top of a flight of stone steps. People who have occupied the carriages in front are already hurrying up the stone steps into the castle. Harry, Ron, Hermione, Neville, and I jump down from our carriage and dash up the steps too, looking up only when we are safely inside the cavernous, torch-lit entrance hall, with its magnificent marble staircase.

“Blimey,” says Ron, shaking his head and sending water everywhere, “if that keeps up the lake’s going to overflow. I’m soak — ARRGH!”

A large, red, water-filled balloon has dropped from out of the ceiling onto Ron’s head and explodes. Drenched and sputtering, Ron staggers sideways into Harry, just as a second water bomb drops — narrowly missing Hermione, it bursts at my feet, sending a wave of cold water over my sneakers into my socks. People all around us shriek and start pushing one another in effort to get out of the line of fire. I look up and see, floating twenty feet above us, Peeves the Poltergeist, a little man in a bell-covered hat and orange bow tie, his wide, malicious face contorted with concentration as he takes aim again.

“PEEVES!” yells an angry voice. “Peeves, come down here at ONCE!” Professor McGonagall, deputy headmistress and Head of Gryffindor House, has come dashing out of the Great Hall; she skids on the wet floor and grabs Hermione around the neck to stop herself from falling.

“Ouch — sorry, Miss Granger —”

“That’s all right, Professor!” Hermione gasps, massaging her throat. I can’t help but find this all a little amusing since if I had been the one to think of it, it would have been funny.

“Peeves, get down here NOW!” barks Professor McGonagall, straightening her pointed hat and glaring upwards through her square-rimmed spectacles. That’s not going to discourage him.

“Not doing nothing!” cackles Peeves, lobbing a water bomb at several fifth-year girls, who scream and dive into the Great Hall. “Already wet, aren’t they? Little squirts! Wheeeeeeeeee!” And he aims another bomb at a group of second years who have just arrived.

“I shall call the headmaster!” shouts Professor McGonagall. “I’m warning you, Peeves —”

Peeves sticks out his tongue, throws the last of his water bombs into the air, and zooms off up the marble staircase, cackling insanely.

“Well, move along, then!” says Professor McGonagall sharply to the bedraggled crowd. “Into the Great Hall, come on!”

Ah its good to be back at Hogwarts. Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I slip and slide across the entrance hall and through the double doors on the right, Ron muttering furiously under his breath as he pushes his sopping hair off his face.

The Great Hall looks its usual splendid self, decorated for the start-of-term feast. Golden plates and goblets gleam by the light of hundreds and hundreds of candles, floating over the tables in midair. The four long House tables are packed with chattering students; at the top of the Hall, the staff sit along one side of a fifth table, facing their pupils. It is much warmer in here. We walk past the Slytherins, the Ravenclaws, and the Hufflepuffs, and sit down with the rest of the Gryffindors at the far side of the Hall, next to Nearly Headless Nick, the Gryffindor ghost. Pearly white and semitransparent, Nick is dressed tonight in his usual doublet, but with a particularly large ruff, which serves the dual purpose of looking extra-festive, and insuring that his head doesn’t wobble too much on his partially severed neck.

Don’t even get me started on the story of his neck. I do not have years to waste in retelling that particular saga.

“Good evening,” he says, beaming at us.

“Says who?” grumbles Harry, taking off his sneakers and emptying them of water. “Hope they hurry up with the Sorting. I’m starving.”

The Sorting of the new students into Houses takes place at the start of every school year. Just then, a highly excited, breathless voice calls down the table.

“Hiya, Harry!” It is Colin Creevey, a third year to whom Harry is something of a hero.

“Hi, Colin,” says Harry warily.

“Hiya Colin.” I say trying to take the strain off of Harry.

“Harry, guess what? Guess what, Harry? My brother’s starting! My brother Dennis!”

“Er — good,” says Harry.

“He’s really excited!” says Colin, practically bouncing up and down in his seat. “I just hope he’s in Gryffindor! Keep your fingers crossed, eh, Harry?”

“Er — yeah, all right,” says Harry. He turns back to Hermione, Ron, Nearly Headless Nick, and me.

“Well that was awkward.” He mutters.

“You can say that again.” I agree.

I look up at the staff table. There seems to be rather more empty seats there than usual. Hagrid, of course, is still fighting his way across the lake with the first years; Professor McGonagall is presumably supervising the drying of the entrance hall floor, but there is another empty chair too, and I can’t think who else is missing.

“Where’s the new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher?” asks Hermione, who is also looking up at the teachers.

“Putting on their protective gear. DADA professors don’t last long in this school.” I quip, earning chuckles from Harry and Ron, and a dark look from Hermione.

We have never yet had a Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher who has lasted more than three terms. My favorite by far has been Professor Lupin, who had resigned last year. I look up and down the staff table. There are definitely no new faces there.

“Maybe they couldn’t get anyone!” says Hermione, looking anxious.

I scan the table more carefully. Tiny little Professor Flitwick, the Charms teacher, is sitting on a large pile of cushions beside Professor Sprout, the Herbology teacher, whose hat is askew over her flyaway gray hair. She is talking to Professor Sinistra of the Astronomy department. On Professor Sinistra’s other side is the sallow-faced, hook-nosed, greasy-haired Potions master, Snape — my least favorite person at Hogwarts (well maybe Malfoy is worse).

On Snape’s other side is an empty seat, which I guess is Professor McGonagall’s. Next to it, and in the very center of the table, sits Professor Dumbledore, the headmaster, his sweeping silver hair and beard shining in the candlelight, his magnificent deep green robes embroidered with many stars and moons. The tips of Dumbledore’s long, thin fingers are together and he is resting his chin upon them, staring up at the ceiling through his half-moon spectacles as though lost in thought.  I glance up at the ceiling too. It is enchanted to look like the sky outside, and I have never seen it look this stormy. Black and purple clouds are swirling across it, and as another thunderclap sounded outside, a fork of lightning flashes across it.

“Oh hurry up,” Ron moans, beside Harry, “I could eat a hippogriff.” I roll my eyes at that.

“You ate two thirds of all the food we had in the compartment!” I cry. Ron gives me a sour look.

“So, that was hours ago I’m a growing boy Jamie I need to be fed constantly and on schedule.” He says seriously. I shake my head and grumble ‘boys’ under my breath mutinously.

The words were no sooner out of my mouth than the doors of the Great Hall open and silence falls. Professor McGonagall is leading a long line of first years up to the top of the Hall. If Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I are wet, it is nothing to how these first years look. They appear to have swum across the lake rather than sailed. All of them are shivering with a combination of cold and nerves as they file along the staff table and come to a halt in a line facing the rest of the school — all of them except the smallest of the lot, a boy with mousy hair, who is wrapped in what I recognize as Hagrid’s moleskin overcoat. The coat is so big for him that it looks as though he is draped in a furry black circus tent. His small face protrudes from over the collar, looking almost painfully excited. When he has lined up with his terrified-looking peers, he catches Colin Creevey’s eye, gives a double thumbs-up, and mouths, ‘I fell in the lake!’ He looks positively delighted about it.

I can’t help but grin at the excitement of the little boy. I can remember Luka and I being excited for the very same reason of what is to come. I cast my gaze across the hall to the Ravenclaw table and catch my brother’s eye. He smiles at me and nods his head. I grin back at him, and then travel the Hufflepuff table until I’m able to find Ariana.

After a minute she turns to see me looking, and with a playful smile she sticks her tongue out at me. I return the gesture in kind, finally returning my attention to the front of the room.

Professor McGonagall now places a four-legged stool on the ground before the first years and, on top of it, an extremely old, dirty, patched wizard’s hat. The first years stare at it. So does everyone else. For a moment, there is silence. Then a long tear near the brim opens wide like a mouth, and the hat breaks into song:

A thousand years or more ago,

When I was newly sewn,

There lived four wizards of renown,

Whose names are still well known:

Bold Gryffindor, from wild moor,

Fair Ravenclaw, from glen,

Sweet Hufflepuff, from valley broad,

Shrewd Slytherin, from fen.

They shared a wish, a hope, a dream,

They hatched a daring plan

To educate young sorcerers

Thus Hogwarts School began.

Now each of these four founders

Formed their own House, for each

Did value different virtues

In the ones they had to teach.

By Gryffindor, the bravest were

Prized far beyond the rest;

For Ravenclaw, the cleverest

Would always be the best;

For Hufflepuff, hard workers were

Most worthy of admission;

And power-hungry Slytherin

Loved those of great ambition.

While still alive they did divide

Their favorites from the throng,

Yet how to pick the worthy ones

When they were dead and gone?

’Twas Gryffindor who found the way,

He whipped me off his head

The founders put some brains in me

So I could choose instead!

Now slip me snug about your ears,

I’ve never yet been wrong,

I’ll have a look inside your mind

And tell where you belong!

 

The Great Hall rings with applause as the Sorting Hat finishes. “That’s not the song it sang when it Sorted us,” says Harry, clapping along with everyone else.

“Sings a different one every year,” says Ron. “It’s got to be a pretty boring life, hasn’t it, being a hat? I suppose it spends all year making up the next one.”

“I forgot that you’re always in trouble and haven’t seen one since we got sorted.” I snicker. Harry glares at me playfully. Professor McGonagall is now unrolling a large scroll of parchment.

“When I call out your name, you will put on the hat and sit on the stool,” she tells the first years. “When the hat announces your House, you will go and sit at the appropriate table.

“Ackerley, Stewart!” A boy walks forward, visibly trembling from head to foot, picks up the Sorting Hat, puts it on, and sits down on the stool.

“RAVENCLAW!” shouts the hat. Stewart Ackerley takes off the hat and hurries into a seat at the Ravenclaw table, where everyone is applauding him.

I forgot that this is going to take forever. “Baddock, Malcolm!”

“SLYTHERIN!” The table on the other side of the hall erupts with cheers; I can see Malfoy clapping as Baddock joins the Slytherins. I wonder whether Baddock knows that Slytherin House has turned out more Dark witches and wizards than any other. Fred and George hiss Malcolm Baddock as he sits down.

“Branstone, Eleanor!”

“HUFFLEPUFF!”

“Cauldwell, Owen!”

“HUFFLEPUFF!”

“Creevey, Dennis!”

Tiny Dennis Creevey staggers forward, tripping over Hagrid’s moleskin, just as Hagrid himself sidles into the Hall through a door behind the teachers’ table. About twice as tall as a normal man, and at least three times as broad, Hagrid, with his long, wild, tangled black hair and beard, looks slightly alarming — a misleading impression, for Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I know Hagrid to possess a very kind nature. He winks at us as he sits down at the end of the staff table and watches Dennis Creevey putting on the Sorting Hat. The rip at the brim opens wide —

“GRYFFINDOR!” the hat shouts.

Hagrid claps along with the Gryffindors as Dennis Creevey, beaming widely, takes off the hat, places it back on the stool, and hurries over to join his brother.

“Colin, I fell in!” he says shrilly, throwing himself into an empty seat. “It was brilliant! And something in the water grabbed me and pushed me back in the boat!”

“Cool!” says Colin, just as excitedly. “It was probably the giant squid, Dennis!”

“Wow!” says Dennis, as though nobody in their wildest dreams could hope for more than being thrown into a storm-tossed, fathoms-deep lake, and pushed out of it again by a giant sea monster. It sounds just like every other kid’s dream. Okay I might be getting cynical now that I’m growing up.

The Sorting continues; boys and girls with varying degrees of fright on their faces moving one by one to the four-legged stool, the line dwindling slowly as Professor McGonagall passes the L’s.

“Oh hurry up,” Ron moans, massaging his stomach.

“Now, Ron, the Sorting’s much more important than food,” says Nearly Headless Nick as “Madley, Laura!” becomes a Hufflepuff. Ariana must be positively joyful about all the new Hufflepuffs. She likes taking the new students under her wing.

“’Course it is, if you’re dead,” snaps Ron.

“I do hope this year’s batch of Gryffindors are up to scratch,” says Nearly Headless Nick, applauding as “McDonald, Natalie!” joins the Gryffindor table. “We don’t want to break our winning streak, do we?”

Gryffindor has won the Inter-House Championship for the last three years in a row.

“Pritchard, Graham!”

“SLYTHERIN!”

“Quirke, Orla!”

“RAVENCLAW!”

And finally, with “Whitby, Kevin!”(“HUFFLEPUFF!”), the Sorting ends. Professor McGonagall picks up the hat and the stool and carries them away.

“About time,” groans Ron, seizing his knife and fork and looking expectantly at his golden plate.

Professor Dumbledore has gotten to his feet. He is smiling around at the students, his arms open wide in welcome.

“I have only two words to say to you,” he tells us, his deep voice echoing around the Hall. “Tuck in.”

Thank Merlin even I’m beginning to feel faint and cold, definitely cold. “Hear, hear!” says Harry and Ron loudly as the empty dishes fill magically before our eyes.

Nearly Headless Nick watches mournfully as Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I load our own plates.

“Aaah, ’at’s be’er,” mumbles Ron, with his mouth full of mashed potato. I scrunch my nose in distaste at him.

“You’re lucky there’s a feast at all tonight, you know,” says Nearly Headless Nick.  “There was trouble in the kitchens earlier.”

“Why? Wha’ ’appened?” asks Harry, through a sizable chunk of steak. Seriously boys, so disgusting when they eat, I trade grossed out looks with Hermione.

“Peeves, of course,” says Nearly Headless Nick, shaking his head, which wobbles dangerously. He pulls his ruff a little higher up on his neck. “The usual argument, you know. He wanted to attend the feast — well, it’s quite out of the question, you know what he’s like, utterly uncivilized, can’t see a plate of food without throwing it. We held a ghost’s council — the Fat Friar was all for giving him the chance — but most wisely, in my opinion, the Bloody Baron put his foot down.”

The Bloody Baron is the Slytherin ghost, a gaunt and silent specter covered in silver bloodstains. He is the only person at Hogwarts who can really control Peeves.

“Yeah, we thought Peeves seemed hacked off about something,” says Ron darkly. “So what did he do in the kitchens?”

“Oh the usual,” says Nearly Headless Nick, shrugging. “Wreaked havoc and mayhem. Pots and pans everywhere. Place swimming in soup. Terrified the house-elves out of their wits —”

Clang. Hermione has knocked over her golden goblet. Pumpkin juice spreads steadily over the tablecloth, staining several feet of white linen orange, but Hermione pays no attention.

“There are house-elves here?” she says, staring, horror-struck, at Nearly Headless Nick. “Here at Hogwarts?”

“Certainly,” says Nearly Headless Nick, looking surprised at her reaction. “The largest number in any dwelling in Britain, I believe. Over a hundred.”

“I’ve never seen one!” says Hermione. I wisely decide to keep quiet about my knowledge of knowing for years that there have been house-elves working in the kitchen from my many nefarious activities.

“Well, they hardly ever leave the kitchen by day, do they?” says Nearly Headless Nick. “They come out at night to do a bit of cleaning . . . see to the fires and so on. . . . I mean, you’re not supposed to see them, are you? That’s the mark of a good house-elf, isn’t it, that you don’t know it’s there?”

Hermione stares at him. “But they get paid?” she says. “They get holidays, don’t they? And — and sick leave, and pensions, and everything?”

Nearly Headless Nick chortles so much that his ruff slips and his head flops off, dangling on the inch or so of ghostly skin and muscle that still attaches it to his neck. That’s a horribly unappetizing sight. I slowly lower down my fork.

“Sick leave and pensions?” he says, pushing his head back onto his shoulders and securing it once more with his ruff. “House-elves don’t want sick leave and pensions!”

Hermione looks down at her hardly touched plate of food, then puts her knife and fork down upon it and pushes it away from her.

“Oh c’mon, ’Er-my-knee,” says Ron, accidentally spraying Harry with bits of Yorkshire pudding. Eww. “Oops — sorry, ’Arry —” He swallows. “You won’t get them sick leave by starving yourself!”

“Slave labor,” says Hermione, breathing hard through her nose. “That’s what made this dinner. Slave labor.”

And she refused to eat another bite. I on the other hand regain my appetite for I am still hungry. There is no point in arguing this with Hermione at the moment.

The rain is still drumming heavily against the high, dark glass. Another clap of thunder shakes the windows, and the stormy ceiling flashes, illuminating the golden plates as the remains of the first course vanishes and is replaced, instantly, with puddings.

“Treacle tart, Hermione!” says Ron, deliberately wafting its smell towards her. “Spotted dick, look! Chocolate gateau!”

But Hermione gives him a look so reminiscent of Professor McGonagall that he gives up. I don’t know what I’m going to do with her.

When the puddings too have been demolished, and the last crumbs have faded off the plates, leaving them sparkling clean, Albus Dumbledore gets to his feet again. The buzz of chatter filling the Hall ceases almost at once, so that only the howling wind and pounding rain can be heard.

“So!” says Dumbledore, smiling around at them all. “Now that we are all fed and watered,” (“Hmph!” says Hermione) “I must once more ask for your attention, while I give out a few notices.

“Mr. Filch, the caretaker, has asked me to tell you that the list of objects forbidden inside the castle has this year been extended to include Screaming Yo-yos, Fanged Frisbees, and Ever-Bashing Boomerangs. The full list comprises some four hundred and thirty-seven items, I believe, and can be viewed in Mr. Filch’s office, if anybody would like to check it.”

So pretty much anything fun that the twins and I could play with. Well what a shame that is that I won’t be following that rule. I can’t help the devilish grin that comes to my face.

The corners of Dumbledore’s mouth twitch. He continues, “As ever, I would like to remind you all that the forest on the grounds is out-of-bounds to students, as is the village of Hogsmeade to all below third year.

“It is also my painful duty to inform you that the Inter-House Quidditch Cup will not take place this year.” Wait what! That can’t be possible!

“What?” Harry gasps. I look around at Fred and George, my fellow members of the Quidditch team. They are mouthing soundlessly at Dumbledore, apparently too appalled to speak. Dumbledore goes on, “This is due to an event that will be starting in October, and continuing throughout the school year, taking up much of the teachers’ time and energy — but I am sure you will all enjoy it immensely. I have great pleasure in announcing that this year at Hogwarts —”

But at that moment, there is a deafening rumble of thunder and the doors of the Great Hall bang open.

A man stands in the doorway, leaning upon a long staff, shrouded in a black traveling cloak. Every head in the Great Hall swivels towards the stranger, suddenly brightly illuminated by a fork of lightning that flashes across the ceiling. He lowers his hood, shakes out a long mane of grizzled, dark gray hair, then begins to walk up towards the teachers’ table.

A dull clunk echoes through the Hall on his every other step. He reaches the end of the top table, turned right, and limps heavily towards Dumbledore. Another flash of lightning crosses the ceiling. Hermione gasps. I know this man. I just can’t believe that he’s going to be our DADA professor.

The lightning has thrown the man’s face into sharp relief, and it is a face unlike many I have ever seen. It looks as though it has been carved out of weathered wood by someone who has only the vaguest idea of what human faces are supposed to look like, and is none too skilled with a chisel. Every inch of skin seems to be scarred. The mouth looks like a diagonal gash, and a large chunk of the nose is missing. But it is the man’s eyes that make him frightening.

One of them is small, dark, and beady. The other is large, round as a coin, and a vivid, electric blue. The blue eye is moving ceaselessly, without blinking, and is rolling up, down, and from side to side, quite independently of the normal eye — and then it rolls right over, pointing into the back of the man’s head, so that all we can see is whiteness.

Oh this is going to be a fun year. The man reaches Dumbledore. He stretches out a hand that is as badly scarred as his face, and Dumbledore shakes it, muttering words I can’t hear. He seems to be making some inquiry of the stranger, who shakes his head unsmilingly and replies in an undertone. Dumbledore nods and gestures the man to the empty seat on his right-hand side.

The man sits down, shakes his mane of dark gray hair out of his face, pulls a plate of sausages towards him, raises it to what was left of his nose, and sniffs it. He then takes a small knife out of his pocket, spears a sausage on the end of it, and begins to eat. His normal eye is fixed upon the sausages, but the blue eye is still darting restlessly around in its socket, taking in the Hall and the students.

“May I introduce our new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher?” says Dumbledore brightly into the silence. “Professor Moody.”

It is usual for new staff members to be greeted with applause, but none of the staff or students clap except Dumbledore and Hagrid, who both put their hands together and applaud, but the sound echoes dismally into the silence, and they stop fairly quickly. Everyone else seems too transfixed by Moody’s bizarre appearance to do more than stare at him.

“Moody?” Harry mutters to Ron. “Mad-Eye Moody? The one your dad went to help this morning?”

“Must be,” says Ron in a low, awed voice.

“What happened to him?” Hermione whispers. “What happened to his face?”

“Dunno,” Ron whispers back, watching Moody with fascination.

“You don’t want to know.” I state softly.

Moody seems totally indifferent to his less-than-warm welcome. Ignoring the jug of pumpkin juice in front of him, he reaches again into his traveling cloak, pulls out a hip flask, and takes a long draught from it. As he lifts his arm to drink, his cloak is pulled a few inches from the ground, and I see, below the table, several inches of carved wooden leg, ending in a clawed foot.

Dumbledore clears his throat. “As I was saying,” he says, smiling at the sea of students before him, all of whom are still gazing transfixed at Mad-Eye Moody, “we are to have the honor of hosting a very exciting event over the coming months, an event that has not been held for over a century. It is my very great pleasure to inform you that the Triwizard Tournament will be taking place at Hogwarts this year.”

“You’re JOKING!” says Fred Weasley loudly. Holy Merlin, I wasn’t expecting this!

The tension that has filled the Hall ever since Moody’s arrival suddenly breaks. Nearly everyone laughs, and Dumbledore chuckles appreciatively.

“I am not joking, Mr. Weasley,” he says, “though now that you mention it, I did hear an excellent one over the summer about a troll, a hag, and a leprechaun who all go into a bar . . .”

You have got to be kidding me. We’re hosting the Triwizard Tournament? Professor McGonagall clears her throat loudly.

“Er — but maybe this is not the time . . . no . . .” says Dumbledore, “where was I? Ah yes, the Triwizard Tournament . . . well, some of you will not know what this tournament involves, so I hope those who do know will forgive me for giving a short explanation, and allow their attention to wander freely.”

“The Triwizard Tournament was first established some seven hundred years ago as a friendly competition between the three largest European schools of wizardry: Hogwarts, Beauxbatons, and Durmstrang. A champion was selected to represent each school, and the three champions competed in three magical tasks. The schools took it in turns to host the tournament once every five years, and it was generally agreed to be a most excellent way of establishing ties between young witches and wizards of different nationalities — until, that is, the death toll mounted so high that the tournament was discontinued.”

“Death toll?” Hermione whispers, looking alarmed. But her anxiety does not seem to be shared by the majority of students in the Hall; many of them are whispering excitedly to one another, and even I’m excited.

“There have been several attempts over the centuries to reinstate the tournament,” Dumbledore continues, “none of which has been very successful. However, our own Departments of International Magical Cooperation and Magical Games and Sports have decided the time is ripe for another attempt. We have worked hard over the summer to ensure that this time, no champion will find himself or herself in mortal danger.”

“The Heads of Beauxbatons and Durmstrang will be arriving with their shortlisted contenders in October, and the selection of the three champions will take place at Halloween. An impartial judge will decide which students are most worthy to compete for the Triwizard Cup, the glory of their school, and a thousand Galleons personal prize money.”

“I’m going for it!” Fred Weasley hisses down the table, his face lit with enthusiasm at the prospect of such glory and riches. He is not the only person who seems to be visualizing himself as the Hogwarts champion. At every House table, I can see people either gazing raptly at Dumbledore, or else whispering fervently to their neighbors. But then Dumbledore speaks again, and the Hall quiets once more.

“Eager though I know all of you will be to bring the Triwizard Cup to Hogwarts,” he says, “the Heads of the participating schools, along with the Ministry of Magic, have agreed to impose an age restriction on contenders this year. Only students who are of age — that is to say, seventeen years or older — will be allowed to put forward their names for consideration. This” — Dumbledore raises his voice slightly, for several people have made noises of outrage at these words, and the Weasley twins are suddenly looking furious — “is a measure we feel is necessary, given that the tournament tasks will still be difficult and dangerous, whatever precautions we take, and it is highly unlikely that students below sixth and seventh year will be able to cope with them. I will personally be ensuring that no underage student hoodwinks our impartial judge into making them Hogwarts champion.” His light blue eyes twinkle as they flicker over Fred’s and George’s mutinous faces. “I therefore beg you not to waste your time submitting yourself if you are under seventeen.”

Like that is going to stop the twins. I don’t think that anything that they’ll do will work but it’s worth a shot anyway.

“The delegations from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang will be arriving in October and remaining with us for the greater part of this year. I know that you will all extend every courtesy to our foreign guests while they are with us, and will give your whole-hearted support to the Hogwarts champion when he or she is selected. And now, it is late, and I know how important it is to you all to be alert and rested as you enter your lessons tomorrow morning. Bedtime! Chop chop!”

Dumbledore sat down again and turned to talk to Mad-Eye Moody. There is a great scraping and banging as all the students get to their feet and swarm towards the double doors into the entrance hall.

I can’t believe it, the Triwizard Tournament here at Hogwarts. This is going to be great, I can’t wait!

“They can’t do that!” says George Weasley, who has not joined the crowd moving toward the door, but is standing up and glaring at Dumbledore. “We’re seventeen in April, why can’t we have a shot?”

“They’re not stopping me entering,” says Fred stubbornly, also scowling at the top table. “The champions’ll get to do all sorts of stuff you’d never be allowed to do normally. And a thousand Galleons prize money!”

“Yeah,” says Ron, a faraway look on his face. “Yeah, a thousand Galleons . . .”

“Come on,” says Hermione, “we’ll be the only ones left here if you don’t move.”

Harry, Ron, Hermione, Fred, George, and I set off for the entrance hall, Fred and George debating the ways in which Dumbledore might stop those who are under seventeen from entering the tournament.

“Who’s this impartial judge who’s going to decide who the champions are?” I ask suddenly.

“Dunno,” says Fred, “but it’s them we’ll have to fool. I reckon a couple of drops of Aging Potion might do it, George. . . .”

“Dumbledore knows you’re not of age, though,” says Ron.

“Yeah, but he’s not the one who decides who the champion is, is he?” says Fred shrewdly. “Sounds to me like once this judge knows who wants to enter, he’ll choose the best from each school and never mind how old they are. Dumbledore’s trying to stop us giving our names.”

I’m not so sure its exactly that, but when those two gets their minds set on something there is nothing that we can do to stop them.

“People have died, though!” cries Hermione in a worried voice as we walk through a door concealed behind a tapestry and start up another, narrower staircase.

“Yeah,” says Fred airily, “but that was years ago, wasn’t it? Anyway, where’s the fun without a bit of risk? Hey, Ron, what if we find out how to get ’round Dumbledore? Fancy entering?”

“What d’you reckon?” Ron asks Harry. “Be cool to enter, wouldn’t it? But I s’pose they might want someone older. . . . Dunno if we’ve learned enough. . . .”

“I definitely haven’t,” comes Neville’s gloomy voice from behind Fred and George. “I expect my gran’d want me to try, though. She’s always going on about how I should be upholding the family honor. I’ll just have to — oops. . . .”

Neville’s foot has sunk right through a step halfway up the staircase. There are many of these trick stairs at Hogwarts; it is second nature to most of the older students to jump this particular step, but Neville’s memory is notoriously poor. Harry and Ron seize him under the armpits and pull him out, while a suit of armor at the top of the stairs creaks and clanks, laughing wheezily.

“Shut it, you,” says Ron, banging down its visor as they passed. I can’t help but think that it was a little funny, but mostly sad that he still has trouble.

“What about you Jamie? Fancy a try at adding Triwizard Champion to that already impressive title of yours?” George questions.

“Not if she values her life she won’t.” Hermione snaps worriedly.

“Nah, I’m okay with watching everyone else attempt to get blown up and set on fire. I’ve had enough danger in my life already thank you very much. Besides, I have a feeling that I’m always going to be in some level of danger being around these three.” I say gesturing to Harry, Ron, and Hermione. I get a playful shove from Ron and a mock glare from Harry. Hermione huffs exasperatedly.

We make our way up to the entrance to Gryffindor Tower, which is concealed behind a large portrait of a fat lady in a pink silk dress.

“Password?” she says as we approach.

“Balderdash,” says George, “a prefect downstairs told me.” The portrait swings forward to reveal a hole in the wall through which we all climb. A crackling fire warms the circular common room, which is full of squashy armchairs and tables. Hermione casts the merrily dancing flames a dark look, and I distinctly hear her mutter “Slave labor,” before bidding us good night and disappearing through the doorway to the girls’ dormitory.

“Well she’s going to be a bear to deal with.” I mutter tiredly. “I’ll see you guys in the morning.” I say with a wave following after my errant friend. Halfway up to the dorm for fourth years I run into Ginny. She smiles at me sleepily.

“Its gonna be weird with you not in the same room. I’ve… kinda gotten used to you always being there.” She admits. I smile at her and wrap my arms around her tightly. Yes I could definitely see myself viewing her as my little sister.

“Nothing’s going to change besides where we sleep Gin. I’ll still be here and we can hang out. When we get out of school its right back to sharing a room.” I inform her with a smile. Ginny nods her head into my shoulder, and gives me an extra squeeze.

“I’ll hold you to that. No disappearing on me.” She says. I grin at her and nod my head. Ginny finally releases me and we go our separate ways to bed.

I finally make it up to my room in time to change into my hippogriff pajamas and climb into bed. It was not lost to me that when I finally closed my eyes to go to sleep that candlelight still lit up Hermione’s bed. This is sure to be an exciting year.


	11. Mad-Eye Moody

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything you recognize is J.K. Rowling's. Except Jamie, Luka, and Ariana.

Chapter 11-Mad-Eye Moody

 

The storm has blown itself out by the following morning, though the ceiling in the Great Hall is still gloomy; heavy clouds of pewter gray swirl overhead as Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I examine our new course schedules at breakfast. A few seats along, Fred, George, and Lee Jordan are discussing magical methods of aging themselves and bluffing their way into the Triwizard Tournament.

“Today’s not bad . . . outside all morning,” says Ron, who is running his finger down his schedule. “Herbology with the Hufflepuffs and Care of Magical Creatures . . . damn it, we’re still with the Slytherins. . . .” Oh well at least I can hang out with Ariana this morning not that it will make up for having Malfoy as well.

“Double Divination this afternoon,” Harry groans, looking down. Divination was his least favorite subject, apart from Potions. Professor Trelawney kept predicting Harry’s death, which he found extremely annoying. I’m beginning to find it amusing.

“Great more acting lessons then. I see… a fly it is rather annoying buzzing around my head, but then it lands into my tea and drowns! Oh no I’m going to die by being drowned!” I cry waving my hands wildly and swooning into Ron. He and Harry laugh and Ron shoves me off of him.

“At least Trelawney believes you.” Ron says.

“Believe the lie Ronald, live the lie!” I say bursting into giggles unable to even believe myself on that one.

“You should have given it up like me, shouldn’t you?” says Hermione briskly, buttering herself some toast. “Then you’d be doing something sensible like Arithmancy.” She doesn’t approve of me lying in class obviously. Wait a minute— is she eating?

“You’re eating again, I notice,” says Ron, watching Hermione add liberal amounts of jam to her toast too.

“I’ve decided there are better ways of making a stand about elf rights,” says Hermione haughtily.

“Yeah . . . and you were hungry,” says Ron, grinning. Thank Merlin I don’t have to force feed one of my friends. I could see that going downhill quickly.

We finish breakfast in relative silence since Harry’s mood has seemed to take a downturn in the last few minutes since Hedwig didn’t arrive. Neither did Di so I’m not too terribly worried.

Harry’s preoccupation lasted all the way across the sodden vegetable patch until we arrive in greenhouse three, but here we are distracted by Professor Sprout showing the class the ugliest plants I have ever seen. Indeed, they look less like plants than thick, black, giant slugs, protruding vertically out of the soil. Each is squirming slightly and has a number of large, shiny swellings upon it, which appear to be full of liquid.

“Bubotubers,” Professor Sprout tells us briskly. “They need squeezing. You will collect the pus —”

“Quite nasty don’t you think?” Ariana whispers to me. I nod my head in agreement.

“The what?” says Seamus Finnigan, sounding revolted.

“Pus, Finnigan, pus,” says Professor Sprout, “and it’s extremely valuable, so don’t waste it. You will collect the pus, I say, in these bottles. Wear your dragon-hide gloves; it can do funny things to the skin when undiluted, bubotuber pus.”

Squeezing the bubotubers is disgusting, but oddly satisfying. As each swelling is popped, a large amount of thick yellowish-green liquid bursts forth, which smells strongly of petrol. We catch it in the bottles as Professor Sprout has indicated, and by the end of the lesson have collected several pints.

“This’ll keep Madam Pomfrey happy,” says Professor Sprout, stoppering the last bottle with a cork. “An excellent remedy for the more stubborn forms of acne, bubotuber pus. Should stop students resorting to desperate measures to rid themselves of pimples.”

“Like poor Eloise Midgen,” says Hannah Abbott, a Hufflepuff, in a hushed voice. “She tried to curse hers off.”

“What happened?” I ask Ariana turning my attention to her. She sighs and shakes her head.

“Tried a curse and blew her nose off her face. It was quite terrifying to watch actually.” She says paling. I shiver thinking about how Voldemort had no nose when I saw him on the back of Quirrell’s face.

“Silly girl,” says Professor Sprout, shaking her head. “But Madam Pomfrey fixed her nose back on in the end.”

A booming bell echoes from the castle across the wet grounds, signaling the end of the lesson, and the class separates; the Hufflepuffs climbing the stone steps for Transfiguration, and the Gryffindors heading in the other direction, down the sloping lawn towards Hagrid’s small wooden cabin, which stands on the edge of the Forbidden Forest.

Hagrid is standing outside his hut, one hand on the collar of his enormous black boarhound, Fang. There are several open wooden crates on the ground at his feet, and Fang is whimpering and straining at his collar, apparently keen to investigate the contents more closely. As we draw nearer, an odd rattling noise reaches our ears, punctuated by what sounds like minor explosions.

Oh this is new and interesting. Hopefully Hagrid isn’t as afraid of covering more interesting creatures this year.

“Mornin’!” Hagrid says, grinning at Harry, Ron, Hermione, and me. “Be’er wait fer the Slytherins, they won’ want ter miss this — Blast-Ended Skrewts!”

“Come again?” says Ron. Hagrid points down into the crates.

“Eurgh!” squeals Lavender Brown, jumping backwards. Even though I’m revolted I can’t help but snicker at Lavender’s reaction, anything to make her day worse as they say.

“Eurgh” just about sums up the Blast-Ended Skrewts in my opinion. They look like deformed, shell-less lobsters, horribly pale and slimy-looking, with legs sticking out in very odd places and no visible heads. There are about a hundred of them in each crate, each about six inches long, crawling over one another, bumping blindly into the sides of the boxes. They are giving off a very powerful smell of rotting fish. Every now and then, sparks will fly out of the end of a skrewt, and with a small phut, it will be propelled forward several inches.

“On’y jus’ hatched,” says Hagrid proudly, “so yeh’ll be able ter raise ’em yerselves! Thought we’d make a bit of a project of it!”

“And why would we want to raise them?” says a cold voice. The Slytherins have arrived. The speaker is Draco Malfoy. Crabbe and Goyle are chuckling appreciatively at his words.

Hagrid looks stumped at the question. “Because you want to pass the class Malfoy. Unless you want to be a fourth year for the rest of your life.” I say sweetly. Malfoy glares daggers at me.

“I mean, what do they do?” asks Malfoy ignoring me. “What is the point of them?”

Hagrid opens his mouth, apparently thinking hard; there is a few seconds’ pause, then he says roughly, “Tha’s next lesson, Malfoy. Yer jus’ feedin’ ’em today. Now, yeh’ll wan’ ter try ’em on a few diff’rent things — I’ve never had ’em before, not sure what they’ll go fer — I got ant eggs an’ frog livers an’ a bit o’ grass snake — just try ’em out with a bit of each.”

“First pus and now this,” mutters Seamus. I can’t help but agree with him.

Nothing but deep affection for Hagrid could have made Harry, Ron, Hermione, and me pick up squelchy handfuls of frog liver and lower them into the crates to tempt the Blast-Ended Skrewts. I can’t suppress the suspicion that the whole thing is entirely pointless, because the skrewts don’t seem to have mouths.

“Ouch!” yells Dean Thomas after about ten minutes. “It got me!” Hagrid hurries over to him, looking anxious.

“Its end exploded!” says Dean angrily, showing Hagrid a burn on his hand.

“Ah, yeah, that can happen when they blast off,” says Hagrid, nodding. Well good at least we’re back to this class being dangerous and dull instead of just dull.

“Eurgh!” says Lavender Brown again. “Eurgh, Hagrid, what’s that pointy thing on it?”

“Ah, some of ’em have got stings,” says Hagrid enthusiastically (Lavender quickly withdraws her hand from the box). “I reckon they’re the males. . . . The females’ve got sorta sucker things on their bellies. . . . I think they might be ter suck blood.”

“Well, I can certainly see why we’re trying to keep them alive,” says Malfoy sarcastically. “Who wouldn’t want pets that can burn, sting, and bite all at once?”

“I don’t know Malfoy I ask that question all the time when dealing with you?” I say drolly. Malfoy takes a step forward glaring at me angrily.

“You want to have a go Pendragon?” He snarls. I grin at him baring my teeth.

“You wouldn’t even last a second Malfoy, so why would I even bother.” I reply. Hermione grabs my arm and pulls me back over to the crate by Harry and Ron.

“Quit it.” She hisses at me. I sigh and attempt to let the tension out of my body. I’ve been angry at him ever since he’s made those comments about the Weasleys and my family’s money. It has just gotten under my skin horribly. I know that the Weasleys wouldn’t take us in just for the money but now that the idea is there it’s sticking.

“Just because they’re not very pretty, it doesn’t mean they’re not useful,” Hermione snaps. “Dragon blood’s amazingly magical, but you wouldn’t want a dragon for a pet, would you?”

Harry, Ron, and I grin at Hagrid, who gives us a furtive smile from behind his bushy beard. Hagrid would have liked nothing better than a pet dragon, as Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I know only too well — he had owned one for a brief period during our first year, a vicious Norwegian Ridgeback by the name of Norbert. Hagrid simply loves monstrous creatures, the more lethal, the better.

“Well, at least the skrewts are small,” says Ron as we make our way back up to the castle for lunch an hour later.

“Not for long.” I say.

“They are now,” says Hermione in an exasperated voice, “but once Hagrid’s found out what they eat, I expect they’ll be six feet long.”

“Well, that won’t matter if they turn out to cure seasickness or something, will it?” says Ron, grinning slyly at her.

“You know perfectly well I only said that to shut Malfoy up,” says Hermione. “As a matter of fact I think he’s right. The best thing to do would be to stamp on the lot of them before they start attacking us all.”

“Ah what’s the harm in having a few fire expelling blood sucking monsters as pets? I think they’d make perfect guard creatures, no unwanted guests then, and you already know what has most likely killed you.” I comment.

We sit down at the Gryffindor table and help ourselves to lamb chops and potatoes. Hermione begins to eat so fast that Harry, Ron, and I stare at her.

“Er — is this the new stand on elf rights?” says Ron. “You’re going to make yourself puke instead?”

“No,” says Hermione, with as much dignity as she can muster with her mouth bulging with sprouts. “I just want to get to the library.”

“What?” says Ron in disbelief. “Hermione — it’s the first day back! We haven’t even got homework yet!”

Hermione shrugs and continues to shovel down her food as though she has not eaten for days. Then she leaps to her feet, says, “See you at dinner!” and departs at high speed.

Well that was just all kinds of odd coming from my friend. I guess that I’m going to have to start worrying about Hermione again. Can’t my friends just be okay and normal for a while?

When the bell rings to signal the start of afternoon lessons, Harry, Ron, and I set off for North Tower where, at the top of a tightly spiraling staircase, a silver stepladder leads to a circular trapdoor in the ceiling, and the room where Professor Trelawney lives.

The familiar sweet perfume spreading from the fire meets our noses as we emerge at the top of the stepladder. As ever, the curtains are all closed; the circular room is bathed in a dim reddish light cast by the many lamps, which are all draped with scarves and shawls. Harry, Ron, and I walk through the mass of occupied chintz chairs and poufs that cluttered the room, and sit down at the same small circular table.

“Good day,” says the misty voice of Professor Trelawney right behind Harry, making him jump.

A very thin woman with enormous glasses that makes her eyes appear far too large for her face, Professor Trelawney is peering down at Harry with the tragic expression she always wears whenever she sees him. The usual large amount of beads, chains, and bangles glitter upon her person in the firelight.

“You are preoccupied, my dear,” she says mournfully to Harry. “My inner eye sees past your brave face to the troubled soul within. And I regret to say that your worries are not baseless. I see difficult times ahead for you, alas . . . most difficult . . . I fear the thing you dread will indeed come to pass . . . and perhaps sooner than you think. . . .”

Oh Merlin here we go again. My friend will die at some point this year; yeah right excuse me if I don’t hold my breath for that outcome.

Her voice drops almost to a whisper. Ron rolls his eyes at Harry, who looks stonily back. Professor Trelawney sweeps past us and seats herself in a large winged armchair before the fire, facing the class. Lavender Brown and Parvati Patil, who deeply admire Professor Trelawney, are sitting on poufs very close to her. A dangerous combination that is daft and dumb, leading the daft and dumb.

“My dears, it is time for us to consider the stars,” she says. “The movements of the planets and the mysterious portents they reveal only to those who understand the steps of the celestial dance. Human destiny may be deciphered by the planetary rays, which intermingle . . .”

I allow myself to tune out most of what she is saying. This class is easy to pass and in the end you never really have to learn anything.

Suddenly Ron is nudging Harry and I turn back in to hear what craziness is going on now.

“I was saying, my dear, that you were clearly born under the baleful influence of Saturn,” says Professor Trelawney to Harry, a faint note of resentment in her voice at the fact that he has obviously not been hanging on her words.

“Born under — what, sorry?” says Harry.

“Saturn, dear, the planet Saturn!” says Professor Trelawney, sounding definitely irritated that he isn’t riveted by this news. If only she knew that I’m paying even less attention. “I was saying that Saturn was surely in a position of power in the heavens at the moment of your birth. . . . Your dark hair . . . your mean stature . . . tragic losses so young in life . . . I think I am right in saying, my dear, that you were born in midwinter?”

“No,” says Harry, “I was born in July.” Ron and I hastily turn our laughs into hacking coughs.

Half an hour later, each of us have been given a complicated circular chart, and are attempting to fill in the position of the planets at our moment of birth. It is dull work, requiring much consultation of timetables and calculation of angles not my strong suit.

“I’ve got two Neptunes here,” says Harry after a while, frowning down at his piece of parchment, “that can’t be right, can it?”

“Better than a Saturn though Harry.” I say as seriously as I can with a smile.

“Aaaaah,” says Ron, imitating Professor Trelawney’s mystical whisper, “when two Neptunes appear in the sky, it is a sure sign that a midget in glasses is being born, Harry. . . .”

I sputter out a laugh attempting not to choke. Seamus and Dean, who are working nearby, snigger loudly, though not loudly enough to mask the excited squeals from Lavender Brown — “Oh Professor, look! I think I’ve got an unaspected planet! Oooh, which one’s that, Professor?”

“It is Uranus, my dear,” says Professor Trelawney, peering down at the chart.

“Can I have a look at Uranus too, Lavender?” says Ron. Most unfortunately, Professor Trelawney hears him, and it is this, perhaps, that makes her give us so much homework at the end of the class.

“A detailed analysis of the way the planetary movements in the coming month will affect you, with reference to your personal chart,” she snaps, sounding much more like Professor McGonagall than her usual airy-fairy self. “I want it ready to hand in next Monday, and no excuses!”

Great all because Ron had to open his big disgusting mouth. I’m not happy with him at the moment. Oh well there’s math involved in this. I’ll get Hermione to help me out even if three is a lot of hemming and hawing.

“Miserable old bat,” says Ron bitterly as we join the crowds descending the staircases back to the Great Hall and dinner. “That’ll take all weekend, that will. . . .”

“Lots of homework?” says Hermione brightly, catching up with us. “Professor Vector didn’t give us any at all!”

“Well, bully for Professor Vector,” says Ron moodily.

“I’ll be your best friend forever Mione if you help me out.” I say batting my eyes at her. She laughs and shakes her head at me.

“Well if you put in that way…”She says. We reach the entrance hall, which is packed with people queuing for dinner. We have just joined the end of the line, when a loud voice rings out behind us.

“Weasley! Hey, Weasley!” Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I turn. Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle are standing there, each looking thoroughly pleased about something.

“What?” says Ron shortly.

“Your dad’s in the paper, Weasley!” says Malfoy, brandishing a copy of the Daily Prophet and speaking very loudly, so that everyone in the packed entrance hall can hear. “Listen to this!

 

FURTHER MISTAKES AT THE MINISTRY OF MAGIC

 

It seems as though the Ministry of Magic’s troubles are not yet at an end, writes Rita Skeeter, Special Correspondent. Recently under fire for its poor crowd control at the Quidditch World Cup, and still unable to account for the disappearance of one of its witches, the Ministry was plunged into fresh embarrassment yesterday by the antics of Arnold Weasley, of the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office.”

 

Malfoy looks up. “Imagine them not even getting his name right, Weasley. It’s almost as though he’s a complete nonentity, isn’t it?” he crows.

Everyone in the entrance hall is listening now. Malfoy straightens the paper with a flourish and reads on:

“Arnold Weasley, who was charged with possession of a flying car two years ago, was yesterday involved in a tussle with several Muggle law-keepers (“policemen”) over a number of highly aggressive dustbins. Mr. Weasley appears to have rushed to the aid of “Mad-Eye” Moody, the aged ex-Auror who retired from the Ministry when no longer able to tell the difference between a handshake and attempted murder. Unsurprisingly, Mr. Weasley found, upon arrival at Mr. Moody’s heavily guarded house, that Mr. Moody had once again raised a false alarm. Mr. Weasley was forced to modify several memories before he could escape from the policemen, but refused to answer Daily Prophet questions about why he had involved the Ministry in such an undignified and potentially embarrassing scene.”

 

“And there’s a picture, Weasley!” says Malfoy, flipping the paper over and holding it up. “A picture of your parents outside their house — if you can call it a house! Your mother could do with losing a bit of weight, couldn’t she?”

Ron is shaking with fury and truthfully so am I. Everyone is staring at him.

“Get stuffed, Malfoy,” says Harry. “C’mon, Ron. . . .” Malfoy turns to me.

“Oh yeah, you live with them now don’t you, Pendragon?” sneers Malfoy. “So tell me, is his mother really that porky, or is it just the picture?” That’s it. This boy has to die now.

“You EVIL SMARMY BASTARD!” I shout lunging for him, but before I can my arms are caught and I’m pulled by the waist against someone.

“Calm down Jamie. He isn’t worth it. He isn’t worth it. He’s a right git but he’s not worth your time, and getting in trouble.” A soft voice breathes into my ear making me shiver and slump slightly back into Ariana. I’m still angry ragingly so.

“You know your mother, Malfoy?” says Harry — both he and Hermione have grabbed the back of Ron’s robes to stop him from launching himself at Malfoy — “that expression she’s got, like she’s got dung under her nose? Has she always looked like that, or was it just because you were with her?”

Malfoy’s pale face goes slightly pink. “Don’t you dare insult my mother, Potter.”

“Keep your fat mouth shut, then,” says Harry, turning away.

BANG!

Several people scream, and Harry reaches into his robes as a jet of blue light shoots next to his head. I hear a second loud BANG, and a roar that echoes through the entrance hall. Ariana’s grip on me becomes tighter for I’m back to struggling to kill Malfoy for an entirely different reason now. No one attacks my friends when their back are turned no one!

“OH NO YOU DON’T, LADDIE!” I finally register the shout. Professor Moody is limping down the marble staircase. His wand is out and it is pointing right at a pure white ferret, which is shivering on the stone-flagged floor, exactly where Malfoy had been standing. Oh my Merlin is that who I think it is. I feel shaking from behind me and look up to see Ariana smother her laugh against me. So I am right. I lean further back into her, a pleased smile on my face.

There is a terrified silence in the entrance hall. Nobody but Moody is moving a muscle. Moody turns to look at Harry — at least, his normal eye is looking at Harry; the other one is pointing into the back of his head.

“Did he get you?” Moody growls. His voice is low and gravelly.

“No,” says Harry, “missed.”

“LEAVE IT!” Moody shouts.

“Leave — what?” Harry says, bewildered.

“Not you — him!” Moody growls, jerking his thumb over his shoulder at Crabbe, who has just frozen, about to pick up the white ferret. It seems that Moody’s rolling eye is magical and can see out of the back of his head. Though gross that is ridiculously cool.

Moody starts to limp towards Crabbe, Goyle, and the ferret, which gives a terrified squeak and takes off, streaking towards the dungeons.

“I don’t think so!” roars Moody, pointing his wand at the ferret again — it flies ten feet into the air, falls with a smack to the floor, and then bounces upwards once more.

“I don’t like people who attack when their opponent’s back’s turned,” growls Moody as the ferret bounces higher and higher, squealing in pain. “Stinking, cowardly, scummy thing to do. . . .”

Part of me is thrilled that Malfoy is finally getting what’s coming to him since he really is a smarmy weasel, but the other part is horrified that he would do this.

The ferret flies through the air, its legs and tail flailing helplessly. “Never — do — that — again —” says Moody, speaking each word as the ferret hits the stone floor and bounces upward again. Okay now I’m a little scared.

“Professor Moody!” says a shocked voice. Professor McGonagall is coming down the marble staircase with her arms full of books.

“Hello, Professor McGonagall,” says Moody calmly, bouncing the ferret still higher.

“What — what are you doing?” says Professor McGonagall, her eyes following the bouncing ferret’s progress through the air.

“Teaching,” says Moody.

“Teach — Moody, is that a student?” shrieks Professor McGonagall, the books spilling out of her arms.

“Yep,” says Moody. I watch the ferret some more. Okay not even Malfoy deserves this.

“No!” cries Professor McGonagall, running down the stairs and pulling out her wand; a moment later, with a loud snapping noise, Draco Malfoy has reappeared, lying in a heap on the floor with his sleek blond hair all over his now brilliantly pink face. He gets to his feet, wincing.

“Moody, we never use Transfiguration as a punishment!” says Professor McGonagall weakly. “Surely Professor Dumbledore told you that?”

“He might’ve mentioned it, yeah,” says Moody, scratching his chin unconcernedly, “but I thought a good sharp shock —”

“We give detentions, Moody! Or speak to the offender’s Head of House!”

“I’ll do that, then,” says Moody, staring at Malfoy with great dislike. Ariana finally lets go of me, but stays close to my side as if worried that I’ll still attack Malfoy now that he’s not a rodent anymore.

Malfoy, whose pale eyes are still watering with pain and humiliation, looks malevolently up at Moody and mutters something in which the words “my father” are distinguishable.

“Oh yeah?” says Moody quietly, limping forward a few steps, the dull clunk of his wooden leg echoing around the hall. “Well, I know your father of old, boy. . . . You tell him Moody’s keeping a close eye on his son . . . you tell him that from me. . . . Now, your Head of House’ll be Snape, will it?”

“Yes,” says Malfoy resentfully.

“Another old friend,” growls Moody. “I’ve been looking forward to a chat with old Snape. . . . Come on, you. . . .”

And he seizes Malfoy’s upper arm and marches him off towards the dungeons. Professor McGonagall stares anxiously after them for a few moments, then waves her wand at her fallen books, causing them to soar up into the air and back into her arms.

“You okay now?” Ariana asks me. I turn around to face her and nod my head. I feel heat rush to my cheeks.

“Yeah, he just really gets to me you know. I don’t like it when he bad mouths the people that mean a lot to me.” I say. She nods her head knowingly and smiles reassuringly.

“You’ll be fine Pendragon. That level of loyalty is characteristic of a Hufflepuff, I’ll convert you yet.” She grins. I scoff and roll my eyes at her.

“As if Dumbledore. I’d give half your house heart attacks before the week is out.” I tell her as we go separate ways to our tables.

“Don’t talk to me,” Ron says quietly to Harry, Hermione, and me as we sit down at the Gryffindor table a few minutes later, surrounded by excited talk on all sides about what has just happened.

“Why not?” says Hermione in surprise.

“Because I want to fix that in my memory forever,” says Ron, his eyes closed and an uplifted expression on his face. “Draco Malfoy, the amazing bouncing ferret . . .”

Harry, Hermione, and I all laugh, and Hermione begins doling beef casserole onto each of our plates.

“He could have really hurt Malfoy, though,” she says. “It was good, really, that Professor McGonagall stopped it —”

“Hermione!” says Ron furiously, his eyes snapping open again, “you’re ruining the best moment of my life!”

Hermione makes an impatient noise and begins to eat at top speed again. “Don’t tell me you’re going back to the library this evening?” says Harry, watching her.

“Got to,” says Hermione thickly. “Loads to do.”

“But you told us Professor Vector —”

“It’s not schoolwork,” she says. Within five minutes, she has cleared her plate and departed. No sooner has she gone than her seat is taken by Fred Weasley.

“Moody!” he says. “How cool is he?”

“Beyond cool,” says George, sitting down opposite Fred.

“Supercool,” says the twins’ best friend, Lee Jordan, sliding into the seat beside George. “We had him this afternoon,” he tells us.

“What was it like?” asks Harry eagerly. Fred, George, and Lee exchange looks full of meaning.

“Never had a lesson like it,” says Fred.

“He knows, man,” says Lee.

“Knows what?” asks Ron, leaning forward.

“Knows what it’s like to be out there doing it,” says George impressively.

“Doing what?” says Harry.

“Fighting the Dark Arts,” says Fred.

“He’s seen it all,” says George.

“’Mazing,” says Lee. Ron dives into his bag for his schedule.

“We haven’t got him till Thursday!” he says in a disappointed voice. I chew on a piece of my casserole and think thoughtfully. Moody knew my parents that I’m sure of. He had said so when Luka and I had met him before. Maybe I can convince my brother to go and talk to him with me. Oh well at least I have a fantastic mental image of Malfoy the ferret to remember for all time.


	12. The Unforgivable Curses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything you recognize is J.K Rowling's. Except Jamie, Luka, and Ariana.

Chapter 12-The Unforgivable Curses

 

The next two days pass without great incident, unless you count Neville melting his sixth cauldron in Potions. Professor Snape, who seems to have attained new levels of vindictiveness over the summer, gives Neville detention, and Neville returns from it in a state of nervous collapse, having been made to disembowel a barrel full of horned toads.

“You know why Snape’s in such a foul mood, don’t you?” says Ron to Harry and me as we watch Hermione teaching Neville a Scouring Charm to remove the toad guts from under his fingernails.

“Yeah,” says Harry. “Moody.” And there we are right back to the professor that has captured the attention of all us. Moody is practically a legend around here now for turning Malfoy into a ferret, which is still my favorite memory of this year so far.

It is common knowledge that Snape really wants the Dark Arts job, and he has now failed to get it for the fourth year running. Snape has disliked all of our previous Dark Arts teachers, and shows it — but he seems strangely wary of displaying overt animosity to Mad-Eye Moody. Indeed, whenever I see the two of them together — at mealtimes, or when they pass in the corridors — he has the distinct impression that Snape is avoiding Moody’s eye, whether magical or normal.

“I reckon Snape’s a bit scared of him, you know,” Harry says thoughtfully.

“Imagine if Moody turned Snape into a horned toad,” I say, my eyes misting over, “and bounced him all around his dungeon. . . .” That is a really nice thought.

The Gryffindor fourth years are looking forward to Moody’s first lesson so much that we arrive early on Thursday lunchtime and queue up outside his classroom before the bell has even rung. The only person missing is Hermione, who turns up just in time for the lesson.

“Been in the —”

“Library.” Harry finishes her sentence for her. “C’mon, quick, or we won’t get decent seats.”

We hurry into four chairs right in front of the teacher’s desk, take out our copies of The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection, and wait, unusually quiet. Soon we hear Moody’s distinctive clunking footsteps coming down the corridor, and he enters the room, looking as strange and frightening as ever. We can just see his clawed, wooden foot protruding from underneath his robes.

“You can put those away,” he growls, stumping over to his desk and sitting down, “those books. You won’t need them.” We return the books to our bags, Ron looking excited (I’m pretty excited as well).

Moody takes out a register, shakes his long mane of grizzled gray hair out of his twisted and scarred face, and begins to call out names, his normal eye moving steadily down the list while his magical eye swivels around, fixing upon each student as he or she answers.

“Right then,” he says, when the last person has declared themselves present, “I’ve had a letter from Professor Lupin about this class. Seems you’ve had a pretty thorough grounding in tackling Dark creatures — you’ve covered boggarts, Red Caps, hinkypunks, grindylows, Kappas, and werewolves, is that right?”

There is a general murmur of assent. “But you’re behind — very behind — on dealing with curses,” says Moody. “So I’m here to bring you up to scratch on what wizards can do to each other. I’ve got one year to teach you how to deal with Dark —”

“What, aren’t you staying?” Ron blurts out. Moody’s magical eye spins around to stare at Ron; Ron looks extremely apprehensive, but after a moment Moody smiles — the first time I have seen him do so. The effect is to make his heavily scarred face look more twisted and contorted than ever, but it is nevertheless good to know that he ever does anything as friendly as smile. Ron looks deeply relieved.

“You’ll be Arthur Weasley’s son, eh?” Moody says. “Your father got me out of a very tight corner a few days ago. . . . Yeah, I’m staying just the one year. Special favor to Dumbledore. . . . One year, and then back to my quiet retirement.”

He gives a harsh laugh, and then claps his gnarled hands together.

“So — straight into it. Curses. They come in many strengths and forms. Now, according to the Ministry of Magic, I’m supposed to teach you countercurses and leave it at that. I’m not supposed to show you what illegal Dark curses look like until you’re in the sixth year. You’re not supposed to be old enough to deal with it till then. But Professor Dumbledore’s got a higher opinion of your nerves, he reckons you can cope, and I say, the sooner you know what you’re up against, the better. How are you supposed to defend yourself against something you’ve never seen? A wizard who’s about to put an illegal curse on you isn’t going to tell you what he’s about to do. He’s not going to do it nice and polite to your face. You need to be prepared. You need to be alert and watchful. You need to put that away, Miss Brown, when I’m talking.”

Lavender jumps and blushes. She had been showing Parvati her completed horoscope under the desk. Apparently Moody’s magical eye can see through solid wood, as well as out of the back of his head. I can’t help but be happy that she got caught.

“So . . . do any of you know which curses are most heavily punished by Wizarding law?” Oh well… I do.

Several hands rise tentatively into the air, including Ron’s and Hermione’s. Moody points at Ron, though his magical eye is still fixed on Lavender. I am not going to volunteer them; I have had enough of those curses for a lifetime.

“Er,” says Ron tentatively, “my dad told me about one. . . . Is it called the Imperius Curse, or something?”

“Ah, yes,” says Moody appreciatively. “Your father would know that one. Gave the Ministry a lot of trouble at one time, the Imperius Curse.”

Moody gets heavily to his mismatched feet, opens his desk drawer, and takes out a glass jar. Three large black spiders are scuttling around inside it. I feel Ron recoil slightly next to me — Ron hates spiders.

Moody reached into the jar, catches one of the spiders, and holds it in the palm of his hand so that we can all see it. He then points his wand at it and mutters, “Imperio!”

The spider leaps from Moody’s hand on a fine thread of silk and begins to swing backwards and forwards as though on a trapeze. It stretches out its legs rigidly, then does a back flip, breaking the thread and landing on the desk, where it begins to cartwheel in circles. Moody jerks his wand, and the spider rises onto two of its hind legs and goes into what is unmistakably a tap dance.

Everyone is laughing — everyone except Moody and me.

“Think it’s funny, do you?” he growls. “You’d like it, would you, if I did it to you?” The laughter dies away almost instantly.

“Total control,” says Moody quietly as the spider balls itself up and begins to roll over and over. “I could make it jump out of the window, drown itself, throw itself down one of your throats . . .” Ron gives an involuntary shudder.

“Years back, there were a lot of witches and wizards being controlled by the Imperius Curse,” says Moody, and I know he is talking about the days in which Voldemort had been all-powerful. “Some job for the Ministry, trying to sort out who was being forced to act, and who was acting of their own free will.

“The Imperius Curse can be fought, and I’ll be teaching you how, but it takes real strength of character, and not everyone’s got it. Better avoid being hit with it if you can. CONSTANT VIGILANCE!” he barks, and everyone jumps.

Moody picks up the somersaulting spider and throws it back into the jar. “Anyone else know one? Another illegal curse?”

Hermione’s hand flies into the air again and so, to my slight surprise, does Neville’s. The only class in which Neville usually volunteers information is Herbology, which is easily his best subject. Neville looks surprised at his own daring.

“Yes?” says Moody, his magical eye rolling right over to fix on Neville.

“There’s one — the Cruciatus Curse,” says Neville in a small but distinct voice.

Moody is looking very intently at Neville, this time with both eyes.

A shiver runs down my spine at the name of the curse. Flashes of light and screams dance across my eyes.

“Your name’s Longbottom?” he says, his magical eye swooping down to check the register again. I don’t like where this is going.

Neville nods nervously, but Moody makes no further inquiries. Turning back to the class at large, he reaches into the jar for the next spider and places it upon the desktop, where it remains motionless, apparently too scared to move.

“The Cruciatus Curse,” says Moody. “Needs to be a bit bigger for you to get the idea,” he says, pointing his wand at the spider. “Engorgio!”

The spider swells. It is now larger than a tarantula. Abandoning all pretense, Ron pushes his chair backwards, as far away from Moody’s desk as possible.

Moody raises his wand again, points it at the spider, and mutters, “Crucio!”

More flashes of lights and a piercing scream come to the forefront of my mind, this one more recent then the rest of the old memories best forgotten.

At once, the spider’s legs bend in upon its body; it rolls over and begins to twitch horribly, rocking from side to side. No sound comes from it, but I am sure that if it could give voice, it would be screaming. Moody does not remove his wand, and the spider starts to shudder and jerk more violently —

I slam my eyes closed and start breathing heavily. “Stop it!” Hermione says shrilly. I don’t open my eyes to see what’s bothering her. I have a guess of who she’s worried about and it’s not me.

“Reducio,” Moody mutters. I unscrew my eyes and look at the now regular sized spider. He puts it back into the jar.

My breath is still shuddering and Harry is eyeing me worriedly. “Pain,” says Moody softly. “You don’t need thumbscrews or knives to torture someone if you can perform the Cruciatus Curse. . . . That one was very popular once too.

“Right . . . anyone know any others?”

I look around. From the looks on everyone’s faces, I guess we are all wondering what is going to happen to the last spider. Hermione’s hand shakes slightly as, for the third time, she raises it into the air.

“Yes?” says Moody, looking at her.

“Avada Kedavra,” Hermione whispers. There it is. Several people look uneasily around at her, including Ron.

“Ah,” says Moody, another slight smile twisting his lopsided mouth. “Yes, the last and worst. Avada Kedavra . . . the Killing Curse.”

He puts his hand into the glass jar, and almost as though it knows what is coming, the third spider scuttles frantically around the bottom of the jar, trying to evade Moody’s fingers, but he traps it, and places it upon the desktop. It starts to scuttle frantically across the wooden surface.

Moody raises his wand, and I feel a sudden thrill of foreboding. “Avada Kedavra!” Moody roars.

There is a flash of blinding green light and a rushing sound, as though a vast, invisible something is soaring through the air — instantaneously the spider rolls over onto its back, unmarked, but unmistakably dead. Several of the students stifle cries; Ron has thrown himself backward and almost toppled off his seat as the spider skids towards him.

I stare at the spider and attempt to swallow. Moody sweeps the dead spider off the desk onto the floor.

“Not nice,” he says calmly. “Not pleasant. And there’s no countercurse. There’s no blocking it. Only one known person has ever survived it, and he’s sitting right in front of me.” I glance at Harry and see him pale. Its one thing to know that and have others know that, but when someone says it out loud in such a serious situation it is different.

“Avada Kedavra’s a curse that needs a powerful bit of magic behind it — you could all get your wands out now and point them at me and say the words, and I doubt I’d get so much as a nosebleed. But that doesn’t matter. I’m not here to teach you how to do it.

“Now, if there’s no countercurse, why am I showing you? Because you’ve got to know. You’ve got to appreciate what the worst is. You don’t want to find yourself in a situation where you’re facing it. CONSTANT VIGILANCE!” he roars, and the whole class jumps again.

“Now . . . those three curses — Avada Kedavra, Imperius, and Cruciatus — are known as the Unforgivable Curses. The use of any one of them on a fellow human being is enough to earn a life sentence in Azkaban. That’s what you’re up against. That’s what I’ve got to teach you to fight. You need preparing. You need arming. But most of all, you need to practice constant, never-ceasing vigilance. Get out your quills . . . copy this down. . . .”

We spend the rest of the lesson taking notes on each of the Unforgivable Curses. No one speaks until the bell rings — but when Moody has dismissed us and we have left the classroom, a torrent of talk bursts forth. Most people are discussing the curses in awed voices — “Did you see it twitch?” “— and when he killed it — just like that!”

I wince at each excited and awed voice. This is not the right reaction to what we just saw.

“Hurry up,” she says tensely to Harry, Ron, and me.

“Not the ruddy library again?” moans Ron.

“No,” says Hermione curtly, pointing up a side passage. “Neville.” Neville is standing alone, halfway up the passage, staring at the stone wall opposite him with the same horrified, wide-eyed look he has worn when Moody has demonstrated the Cruciatus Curse.

“Neville?” Hermione says gently. Neville looks around.

“Oh hello,” he says, his voice much higher than usual. “Interesting lesson, wasn’t it? I wonder what’s for dinner, I’m — I’m starving, aren’t you?”

“Neville, are you all right?” says Hermione.

“Oh yes, I’m fine,” Neville gabbled in the same unnaturally high voice. “Very interesting dinner — I mean lesson — what’s for eating?”

Ron gives Harry a startled look. “Neville, what — ?”

But an odd clunking noise sounds behind us, and we turn to see Professor Moody limping towards us. All four of us fall silent, watching him apprehensively, but when he speaks, it is in a much lower and gentler growl than we have yet heard.

“It’s all right, sonny,” he says to Neville. “Why don’t you come up to my office? Come on . . . we can have a cup of tea. . . .” While they leave Moody’s magical eye focuses on me and I swear that I can read meaning from it. I shift my gaze away and scuff the ground with my shoe.

Moody turns his magical eye upon Harry. “You all right, are you, Potter?”

“Yes,” says Harry, almost defiantly. Moody’s blue eye quivers slightly in its socket as it surveys Harry. Then he says, “You’ve got to know. It seems harsh, maybe, but you’ve got to know. No point pretending . . . well . . . come on, Longbottom, I’ve got some books that might interest you.”

Neville looks pleadingly at Harry, Ron, Hermione, and me but we don’t say anything, so Neville has no choice but to allow himself to be steered away, one of Moody’s gnarled hands on his shoulder.

“What was that about?” says Ron, watching Neville and Moody turn the corner.

“I don’t know,” says Hermione, looking pensive.

“Some lesson, though, eh?” says Ron to Harry as we set off for the Great Hall. “Fred and George were right, weren’t they? He really knows his stuff, Moody, doesn’t he? When he did Avada Kedavra, the way that spider just died, just snuffed it right —”

But Ron falls suddenly silent at the look on Harry’s face and doesn’t speak again until we reach the Great Hall, when he says he supposed they had better make a start on Professor Trelawney’s predictions tonight, since they would take hours.

Hermione does not join in with our conversation during dinner, but eats furiously fast, and then leaves for the library again. “Hey guys I’ll meet you back at the tower.” I say. They give me wary looks but nod their heads anyway.

As they leave I look over at the Ravenclaw table trying to find my brother, but I don’t see him. I bite down on my lower lip and glance around the hall. I stop when I spot someone that I do know, and might know where Luka is. Before I can sway myself otherwise I walk over to the Hufflepuff table.

Susan Bones nudges Ariana as I come up to them. She turns around and raises her eyebrow at me. “Do you know where Luka is?” I blurt out not even bothering with a greeting. Her brown eyes study me for a long moment, then she murmurs a goodbye to her friends. Ariana gets up and takes me by the arm leading me out of the Great Hall and into the entrance hall.

“What happened Jamie?” Ariana asks me softly leading me through the halls passively.

“He— he killed it. I— I get that its only a spider but… still…” I say trailing off in the end. Ariana stiffens next to me for a second then forces her body to relax again.

“You saw something?” She asks. I flick my gaze to hers quickly wondering how she knew that.

“To use those spells so carelessly…” I tell her. Suddenly Ariana leads to an alcove and sits me down. “Ari?” I ask curiously looking at her pensive face.

“Did I ever tell you how I came to be living with my grandfather?” Ariana asks me quietly. I raise my eyes to hers in shock. In all the years that I’ve known her she’s never once mentioned how she ended up there. No one really liked talking about the Dumbledore family since most people have a great respect for the Headmaster.

I shake my head wordlessly. With a long sigh Ariana slumps against the wall in front of me. She looks nervous and agitated, something that I’m not used to seeing her as, and it bothers me. “A long time ago before my grandfather really grew up and began to understand himself he had a fling with a muggle girl.” She starts.

My eyebrows rise at that. “Her name was Genevieve. That’s all that I’ve ever been able to get out of Grandfather. He’s never told me anything else other than that she dies many years ago. It was a one time mistake as he tells it, and nine months later that mistake produced a child. That child was left on my Grandfather’s doorstep one morning after Genevieve was able to track him down.”

“In case you haven’t guessed the kid was my father Adrian. Grandfather took the baby in despite his family’s qualms about keeping the son and raising him but Grandfather wouldn’t abandon my father. He loved him. So my father grew up as a Dumbledore and lived with the family. Hogwarts as always changed his life. While my father was at school here he met a girl— Mira. I still don’t know her last name.”

“They were madly in love and a year out of school they got married to each other. Mira was my mother. The war was going strong by then. My parents got pregnant with me around the same time that everyone else in our year. Grandfather tried everything to protect our family especially once I was born. It wasn’t enough though… my parents were involved in anti Voldemort efforts along with your parents and Harry’s. Of course that put targets on their backs and just like your family are Pendragons mine are Dumbledores. We have high prices on us.”

“My mother Mira was taken one day in a fight. She was captured, tortured for information which she wouldn’t give, and when there was practically nothing left of her… V— Volde- he killed her. He sent back her body to my family. My father went mad with grief swearing that he would kill him if it was the last thing that he would do. Grandfather begged and pleaded with him to stop and let it go… to live for me.”

“I… I guess that I wasn’t enough at that point. My father left me with Grandfather and went off screaming for Voldemort to come and face him. My father dies that very night by his hand. In the course of a few days my family was taken from me and my Grandfather is left as my last family member. I understand what it feels like to see those spells performed. I might have not been there when it happened, but the effect is still the same.”

“Why practice magic when it has taken away the very things that we love? Those questions haunt me still.” Ariana finishes staring down at her shaking hands while tears streak down her cheeks. I slowly get up from my spot on the bench and raise my hand to wipe away her tears with my thumb. Her eyes focus back onto me.

“We practice magic to honor those who have gone and to protect those that we have left. I am sorry about your parents Ariana. I understand, but you are not alone. You will never be alone as long as we stand beside you.” I tell her. A last tear streaks down her cheek, and she wraps her arms around my waist burying her face into my neck.

“Thank you.” She breathes, and I tighten my grasp on her stroking her back slowly. Everyone needs a friend and it looks like Ariana Dumbledore is going to be stuck with me.

“Always.” I reply. After a minute we break apart. She straightens herself up and I’m amazed how the blond can make herself look like she hadn’t just had an emotional breakdown.

“Your brother is just through there Pendragon. I’d suggest going now before you’ve lost him to the realm of books and papers. Something about an opportunity for an extra credit assignment all ready or something.” She tells me gesturing to the door. I nod my head and smile softly at her.

“Thanks Dumbledore. I’ll see you in Herbology.” I reply understanding that she needs to get back to a lighter mood. With one last grin she parts ways with me. I let out a shaky breath of air and push open the door to see my brother surrounded by five books surrounding him that are all open, and piles of paper on the table beside him.

“You do understand that we’ve only been back at school for four days correct?” I question coming closer to look at what he’s working on. Luka jumps about a foot in the air adjusting his glasses on his nose while scowling at me.

“Don’t you know that it’s considered rude not to knock?” He shoots back. I roll my eyes at him and sit backwards in the chair in front of him.

“How did you make it through DADA class?” I ask him upfront not bothering to beat around the bush. The pencil in Luka’s hand drops to the desk with a clatter. The color has drained from his face as well.

“Oh— you had Moody today.” Luka stutters. I roll my eyes at his obvious statement.

“Yeah. Did— did you see it? I-I can’t stop seeing it now. Its like it’s burned to the back of my eyelids again. It’s been gone for so long Luka and now its back and I don’t know what to do.” I cringe squeezing my eyes shut attempting to get the vision of him on the floor out of my mind. The ghostly howl rips through my ears causing me to wince.

I feel a warm hand on mine squeezing tightly. “Jame, that’s in the past it’s not happening right now. We’re all fine everything is okay. No one got hurt.” Luka says. I open my eyes to look at him incredulously.

“They were in our house! Kingsley was on the floor, and the screaming! Merlin there was so much screaming! If we hadn’t be taught where to hide…” I gasp not wanting to think about that thought any longer.

“Everything turned out all right. The aurors came and Kingsley is just fine now. That’s the whole reason we got a new house and fidelous charm in the first place. The bad men are gone and locked up in Azkeban. They can never hurt us again. The memories will go away again Jamie. We’re safe.” Luka insists staring me in the eye.

I nod my head slowly in acceptance calming down considerably. This is why Luka is the oldest. Everyone else might think that I’m the strong one out of the pair of us, but its Luka who’s able to stay sane throughout almost every crisis. I let out a shaky breath of air and look at my brother.

“Thanks.” I say. He grins at me crookedly and nods his head.

“That’s what I’m here for. Someone has to keep you from going off the deep end, and let me tell you sister it is no picnic.” Luka says. I glare at him playfully and smack his arm.

“I’ll see you later dork.” I say getting up and heading towards the door.

“Good night sister dearest!” Luka calls after me. 

* * *

 

When I get back up to the tower Harry, Ron, and I work on our charts for Divination coming up with the most wild and grisly deaths that we can possibly think about for ourselves. I am barbequed by a dragon in one prediction. I thought that it was rather ironic.

Hermione climbs into the common room carrying a sheaf of parchment in one hand and a box whose contents rattle as she walks in the other. Crookshanks arches his back, purring.

“Hello,” she says, “I’ve just finished!”

“So have I!” says Ron triumphantly, throwing down his quill. Hermione sits down, lays the things she was carrying in an empty armchair, and pulls Ron’s predictions towards her.

“Not going to have a very good month, are you?” she says sardonically as Crookshanks curls up in her lap.

“Ah well, at least I’m forewarned,” Ron yawns.

“You seem to be drowning twice,” says Hermione. I snicker at the mistake that he’s made. At least I only managed to be hit by lightning once.

“Oh am I?” says Ron, peering down at his predictions. “I’d better change one of them to getting trampled by a rampaging hippogriff.”

“Don’t you think it’s a bit obvious you’ve made these up?” says Hermione.

“How dare you!” says Ron, in mock outrage. “We’ve been working like house-elves here!” Hermione raises her eyebrows. She’s still touchy about the whole subject.

“It’s just an expression,” says Ron hastily. Harry lays down his quill too, having just finished predicting his own death by decapitation.

“What’s in the box?” he asks, pointing at it.

“Funny you should ask,” says Hermione, with a nasty look at Ron. She takes off the lid and shows tus the contents.

Inside are about fifty badges, all of different colors, but all bearing the same letters: S.P.E.W.

“‘Spew’?” says Harry, picking up a badge and looking at it. “What’s this about?”

“Not spew,” says Hermione impatiently. “It’s S-P-E-W. Stands for the Society for the Promotion of Elfish Welfare.”

“Never heard of it,” says Ron. Neither have I and I happen to know a lot of random civil right groups.

“Well, of course you haven’t,” says Hermione briskly, “I’ve only just started it.”

“Yeah?” I say in mild surprise. “How many members have you got?”

“Well — if you three join — four,” says Hermione. I raise my eyebrows at that.

“And you think we want to walk around wearing badges saying ‘spew,’ do you?” says Ron.

“S-P-E-W!” says Hermione hotly. “I was going to put Stop the Outrageous Abuse of Our Fellow Magical Creatures and Campaign for a Change in Their Legal Status — but it wouldn’t fit. So that’s the heading of our manifesto.” She brandishes the sheaf of parchment at us. Part of me is amazed and proud of her and the other is just plain terrified.

“I’ve been researching it thoroughly in the library. Elf enslavement goes back centuries. I can’t believe no one’s done anything about it before now.”

“Hermione — open your ears,” says Ron loudly. “They. Like. It. They like being enslaved!”

“Our short-term aims,” says Hermione, speaking even more loudly than Ron, and acting as though she didn’t heard a word, “are to secure house-elves fair wages and working conditions. Our long-term aims include changing the law about non-wand use, and trying to get an elf into the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, because they’re shockingly underrepresented.”

“And how do we do all this?” Harry asks.

“We start by recruiting members,” says Hermione happily. “I thought two Sickles to join — that buys a badge — and the proceeds can fund our leaflet campaign. You’re treasurer, Ron — I’ve got you a collecting tin upstairs — and Harry, you’re secretary, so you might want to write down everything I’m saying now, as a record of our first meeting. Jamie you’re PR that stands for Public Relations and will talk to people about the cause.”

I can’t believe she’s done all this. There is a pause in which Hermione beams at the three of us, and I sit, torn between exasperation at Hermione and amusement at the look on Ron’s face. The silence is broken, not by Ron, who in any case looks as though he is temporarily dumbstruck, but by a soft tap, tap on the window. I look across the now empty common room and see, illuminated by the moonlight, a snowy owl perched on the windowsill.

“Hedwig!” Harry shouts, and he launches himself out of his chair and across the room to pull open the window.

Hedwig flies inside, soars across the room, and lands on the table on top of Harry’s predictions. Lets hope she doesn’t relieve herself on them, but then again I’d love to see the look on Professor Trelawney’s face when she receives the work.

“About time!” says Harry, hurrying after her.

“She’s got an answer!” says Ron excitedly, pointing at the grubby piece of parchment tied to Hedwig’s leg.

Harry hastily unties it and sits down to read, whereupon Hedwig flutters onto his knee, hooting softly.

“What does it say?” Hermione asks breathlessly.

“Come on Harry don’t leave us guessing.” I prompt him. The letter is very short, and looks as though it had been scrawled in a great hurry. Harry reads it aloud:

“Harry —

I’m flying north immediately. This news about your scar is the latest in a series of strange rumors that have reached me here. If it hurts again, go straight to Dumbledore — they’re saying he’s got Mad-Eye out of retirement, which means he’s reading the signs, even if no one else is.

I’ll be in touch soon. My best to Jamie, Ron, and Hermione. Keep your eyes open, Harry.”

 

Harry looks up at Ron, Hermione, and me. “He’s flying north?” Hermione whispers. “He’s coming back?” That is rather odd now that I think of it.

“Dumbledore’s reading what signs?” says Ron, looking perplexed. “Harry — what’s up?”

For Harry has just hit himself in the forehead with his fist, jolting Hedwig out of his lap.

“I shouldn’t’ve told him!” Harry says furiously.

“What are you on about?” says Ron in surprise.

“It’s made him think he’s got to come back!” says Harry, now slamming his fist on the table so that Hedwig lands on the back of Ron’s chair, hooting indignantly.  “Coming back, because he thinks I’m in trouble! And there’s nothing wrong with me! And I haven’t got anything for you,” Harry snaps at Hedwig, who is clicking her beak expectantly, “you’ll have to go up to the Owlery if you want food.” I take a good look at her, and notice that Hedwig is looking rather round lately.

Harry must be feeding her too many scraps at the table recently. Hedwig gives him an extremely offended look and takes off for the open window, cuffing him around the head with her outstretched wing as she goes. I’ve always liked that bird she has spunk.

“Harry,” Hermione begins, in a pacifying sort of voice.

“I’m going to bed,” says Harry shortly. “See you in the morning.” With that he stomps up the stairs to the boys dormitory. I roll my eyes after him. Harry’s acting like a child throwing a tantrum.

“Don’t bother. Let him go.” I say waving off my friends’ attempts to call him back. A few minutes later we retire as well. Up in my room under the covers of my bed I finally allow my body to relax all the way after the stressful day that I’ve just had.

Hopefully the days to come won’t be as bad or I won’t live long enough to see fifteen.


	13. Beauxbatons and Durmstrang

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything you recognize is J.K. Rowling's. Except Jamie, Luka, and Ariana.

Chapter 13- Beauxbatons and Durmstrang

 

The next day comes with irritation at Harry on our part. The boy wonder had decided to send another letter back to Sirius Black.

“That was a lie, Harry,” says Hermione sharply over breakfast, when he tells us what he has done. “You didn’t imagine your scar hurting and you know it.”

“So what?” says Harry. “He’s not going back to Azkaban because of me.”

“Drop it,” says Ron sharply to Hermione as she opens her mouth to argue some more, and for once, Hermione heeds him, and falls silent. That doesn’t stop the fact that I’m just plain tired of all this arguing.

Despite all the talks that I had yesterday with Ariana and Luka, I was not able to sleep well. I had woken up in cold sweats twice that night. That’s making me a tad more irritable this morning.

I wish that we still had Quidditch; at least the practices would allow me to get the frustration out, and leave me too tired at nights to even bother with dreaming. On the other hand, our lessons are becoming more difficult and demanding than ever before, particularly Moody’s Defense Against the Dark Arts.

To our surprise, Professor Moody has announced that he will be putting the Imperius Curse on each of us in turn, to demonstrate its power and to see whether we could resist its effects.

“But — but you said it’s illegal, Professor,” says Hermione uncertainly as Moody clears away the desks with a sweep of his wand, leaving a large clear space in the middle of the room. “You said — to use it against another human was —”

“Dumbledore wants you taught what it feels like,” says Moody, his magical eye swiveling onto Hermione and fixing her with an eerie, unblinking stare. “If you’d rather learn the hard way — when someone’s putting it on you so they can control you completely — fine by me. You’re excused. Off you go.”

He points one gnarled finger towards the door. Hermione goes very pink and mutters something about not meaning that she wanted to leave. Harry, Ron, and I grin at each other. We know Hermione would rather eat bubotuber pus than miss such an important lesson.

Moody begins to beckon students forward in turn and put the Imperius Curse upon them. I watch as, one by one, my classmates do the most extraordinary things under its influence. Dean Thomas hops three times around the room, singing the national anthem. Lavender Brown imitates a squirrel. Neville performs a series of quite astonishing gymnastics he would certainly not have been capable of in his normal state. Not one of them seem to be able to fight off the curse, and each of them recover only when Moody removes it.

“Potter,” Moody growls, “you next.”

Harry moves forward into the middle of the classroom, into the space that Moody has cleared of desks. Moody raises his wand, points it at Harry, and says, “Imperio!”

Harry’s face goes slack and kind of dopey. He just stands there for a second before springing into strangled action of a half jump half stop that sends him crashing into one of the desks.

“Now, that’s more like it!” growls Moody. Harry’s face regains its normal pensive features, and I know that the spell has been released. “Look at that, you lot . . . Potter fought! He fought it, and he damn near beat it! We’ll try that again, Potter, and the rest of you, pay attention — watch his eyes, that’s where you see it — very good, Potter, very good indeed! They’ll have trouble controlling you!”

“Now let’s see…” He says his magical eye spinning over all of us crazily. It lands on me though, and I feel dread open up in my stomach. “All right Pendragon, let’s see what kind of stuff you’re made of. Hopefully its stronger stuff than your brother.” He says. I glare at Moody and step into the center of the classroom.

Moody raises his wand and casts, “Imperio!”

An odd feeling tickles at the corners of my mind. It is soothing and relaxing begging to be let in. I scrunch up my nose at the feeling. The look on Moody’s face is astounded. _Let me in._ Well that was certainly disconcerting. My mind flashes back to second year when Ginny was controlled by Riddle when she poured too much of herself into that blasted diary and it ended up taking her over.

_No._ A sharp pain goes through my head, and I end up shaking it to get the lingering tendrils away from my mind. The class around us looks expectant, but both of Moody’s good eye and magical one are trained on me wholly. “Again.” He barks. I don’t even hear he casting of the spell before the soothing sensation is back again but stronger.

_Relax… you know that you want to. Let me in._ With a violent shudder I shake my head again and glare at Moody. “If you have to ask for permission Professor, I don’t think that the spell is working.” I tell him shakily. With a determined set of his mouth he flicks his wand again, and this time I’m sent to my knees by the force of the pain inside my head.

_Get to your feet and start dancing. You have no will here._ I hear the worried whispers around me. Harry has an arm on Hermione holding her back.

_My mind is my own!_ With violent force and much pain, the connection is severed between us. I drop to my hands and breathe shakily attempting to get air back into my lungs. “That class— is true resistance. There’s what you want to look like.” Moody growls softly.

“Granger get her up.” Hermione comes hurrying over to me, helping me over to a chair so that I can sit.

For the rest of class I sit there and watch as he goes through the rest of the class but his magical eye never leaves me. When the class is released though, he barks that I have to stay behind for a minute. Slowly I make my way to the crazy professor. He leans back against his desk and eyes me up and down.

“That Pendragon was one of the single best resistances that I have ever seen of an Imperius curse. That is a very special talent to have indeed; my suggestion never even came close to having access to your mind. That ability will make you a target of some very specific people Pendragon the Dark Lord included.” Moody says.

I swallow nervously not liking where this conversation is going. “Do not tell anyone else of this ability lest you get thrust into situations that you might not like down the road.” He tells me. I nod my head slowly still trying to absorb all the he’s said.

I leave the classroom and catch up with my friends in the hall. “The way he talks, you’d think we were all going to be attacked any second.” Harry mutters.

“Yeah, I know,” says Ron, who is skipping on every alternate step. He had much more difficulty with the curse than Harry and me, though Moody assures him the effects will wear off by lunchtime. “Talk about paranoid . . .” Ron glances nervously over his shoulder to check that Moody is definitely out of earshot and goes on. “No wonder they were glad to get shot of him at the Ministry. Did you hear him telling Seamus what he did to that witch who shouted ‘Boo’ behind him on April Fools’ Day? And when are we supposed to read up on resisting the Imperius Curse with everything else we’ve got to do?”

All the fourth years have noticed a definite increase in the amount of work we are required to do this term. Professor McGonagall explained why, when the class gave a particularly loud groan at the amount of Transfiguration homework she had assigned.

“You are now entering a most important phase of your magical education!” she tells us, her eyes glinting dangerously behind her square spectacles. “Your Ordinary Wizarding Levels are drawing closer —”

“We don’t take O.W.L.s till fifth year!” says Dean Thomas indignantly.

“Maybe not, Thomas, but believe me, you need all the preparation you can get! Miss Granger remains the only person in this class who has managed to turn a hedgehog into a satisfactory pincushion. I might remind you that your pincushion, Thomas, still curls up in fright if anyone approaches it with a pin!”

Hermione, who has turned rather pink again, seems to be trying not to look too pleased with herself.

Harry, Ron, and I are deeply amused when Professor Trelawney tells us that we have received top marks for our homework in our next Divination class. She reads out large portions of our predictions, commending us for our unflinching acceptance of the horrors in store for us — but we are less amused when she asks us to do the same thing for the month after next; we are running out of ideas for catastrophes.

Meanwhile Professor Binns, the ghost who teaches History of Magic, has us writing weekly essays on the goblin rebellions of the eighteenth century. Professor Snape is forcing us to research antidotes. We take this one seriously, as he has hinted that he might be poisoning one of us before Christmas to see if our antidote works. Professor Flitwick has asked us to read three extra books in preparation for our lesson on Summoning Charms. Not that I’m worried at all about that class since its my favorite one.

Even Hagrid is adding to our workload. The Blast-Ended Skrewts are growing at a remarkable pace given that nobody has yet discovered what they eat (which is disconcerting). Hagrid is delighted, and as part of our “project,” suggests that we come down to his hut on alternate evenings to observe the skrewts and make notes on their extraordinary behavior.

“I will not,” says Draco Malfoy flatly when Hagrid proposes this with the air of Father Christmas pulling an extra-large toy out of his sack. “I see enough of these foul things during lessons, thanks.”

Hagrid’s smile fades off his face. One day this weasel or excuse me ferret will get what’s coming to him.

“Yeh’ll do wha’ yer told,” he growls, “or I’ll be takin’ a leaf outta Professor Moody’s book. . . . I hear yeh made a good ferret, Malfoy.”

The Gryffindors roar with laughter. Malfoy flushes with anger, but apparently the memory of Moody’s punishment is still sufficiently painful to stop him from retorting. Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I return to the castle at the end of the lesson in high spirits; seeing Hagrid put down Malfoy is particularly satisfying, especially because Malfoy had done his very best to get Hagrid sacked the previous year.

When we arrive in the entrance hall, we find ourselves unable to proceed owing to the large crowd of students congregated there, all milling around a large sign that has been erected at the foot of the marble staircase. Ron, the tallest of our group, stands on tiptoe to see over the heads in front of us and read the sign aloud to the other three:

TRIWIZARD TOURNAMENT

 

THE DELEGATIONS FROM BEAUXBATONS AND DURMSTRANG WILL BE ARRIVING AT 6 O’CLOCK ON FRIDAY THE 30TH OF OCTOBER. LESSONS WILL END HALF AN HOUR EARLY —

 

“Brilliant!” says Harry. “It’s Potions last thing on Friday! Snape won’t have time to poison us all!”

 

STUDENTS WILL RETURN THEIR BAGS AND BOOKS TO THEIR DORMITORIES AND ASSEMBLE IN FRONT OF THE CASTLE TO GREET OUR GUESTS BEFORE THE WELCOMING FEAST.”

 

“Only a week away!” says Ernie Macmillan of Hufflepuff, emerging from the crowd, his eyes gleaming. “I wonder if Cedric knows? Think I’ll go and tell him. . . .”

“Cedric?” says Ron blankly as Ernie hurries off.

“Diggory,” I say. “He must be entering the tournament.”

“That idiot, Hogwarts champion?” says Ron as we push our way through the chattering crowd towards the staircase.

“He’s not an idiot. You just don’t like him because he beat Gryffindor at Quidditch,” says Hermione. “I’ve heard he’s a really good student — and he’s a prefect.”

She speaks as though this settled the matter. “You only like him because he’s handsome,” says Ron scathingly. Oh Merlin please not another fight between the two of them! I swear I will lock them in that broom closet this time! It’s maddening how hormones are beginning to effect all of my friends. Don’t think that I don’t see the way that Harry looks at Cho Chang when he thinks that we’re not looking.

Those three will be the death of me! “Excuse me, I don’t like people just because they’re handsome!” says Hermione indignantly.

Ron gives a loud false cough, which sounds oddly like “Lockhart!” Well he’s got her there.

The appearance of the sign in the entrance hall has a marked effect upon the inhabitants of the castle. During the following week, there seems to be only one topic of conversation, no matter where I go: the Triwizard Tournament. Rumors are flying from student to student like highly contagious germs: who is going to try for Hogwarts champion, what the tournament will involve, how the students from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang differ from ourselves.

I notice too that the castle seems to be undergoing an extra-thorough cleaning. Several grimy portraits have been scrubbed, much to the displeasure of their subjects, who sit huddled in their frames muttering darkly and wincing as they feel their raw pink faces. The suits of armor are suddenly gleaming and moving without squeaking, and Argus Filch, the caretaker, is behaving so ferociously to any students who forget to wipe their shoes that he terrifies a pair of first-year girls into hysterics.

Not that that’s anything new for him of course. Other members of the staff seem oddly tense too.

“Longbottom, kindly do not reveal that you can’t even perform a simple Switching Spell in front of anyone from Durmstrang!” Professor McGonagall barks at the end of one particularly difficult lesson, during which Neville has accidentally transplanted his own ears onto a cactus. So pretty much everyone is losing their minds.

When we go down to breakfast on the morning of the thirtieth of October, we find that the Great Hall has been decorated overnight. Enormous silk banners hang from the walls, each of them representing a Hogwarts House: red with a gold lion for Gryffindor, blue with a bronze eagle for Ravenclaw, yellow with a black badger for Hufflepuff, and green with a silver serpent for Slytherin. Behind the teachers’ table, the largest banner of all bears the Hogwarts coat of arms: lion, eagle, badger, and snake united around a large letter H.

Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I sit down beside Fred and George at the Gryffindor table. Once again, and most unusually, they are sitting apart from everyone else and conversing in low voices. Ron leads the way over to them.

“It’s a bummer, all right,” George is saying gloomily to Fred. “But if he won’t talk to us in person, we’ll have to send him the letter after all. Or we’ll stuff it into his hand. He can’t avoid us forever.”

“Who’s avoiding you?” says Ron, sitting down next to them.

“Wish you would,” says Fred, looking irritated at the interruption.

“What’s a bummer?” Ron asks George.

“Having a nosy git like you for a brother,” says George. Yes this sounds more like what I am used to back at the Burrow.

“You two got any ideas on the Triwizard Tournament yet?” Harry asks. “Thought any more about trying to enter?”

“I asked McGonagall how the champions are chosen but she wasn’t telling,” says George bitterly. “She just told me to shut up and get on with Transfiguring my raccoon.”

“Wonder what the tasks are going to be?” says Ron thoughtfully. “You know, I bet we could do them, Harry. We’ve done dangerous stuff before. . . .”

“Count me out.” I say abruptly putting my hands up. No way in hell they’re getting me to do anything moderately dangerous this year. I’d like a relatively calm year for once.

“Not in front of a panel of judges, you haven’t,” says Fred. “McGonagall says the champions get awarded points according to how well they’ve done the tasks.”

“Who are the judges?” Harry asks.

“Well, the Heads of the participating schools are always on the panel,” says Hermione, and everyone looks around at her, rather surprised, “because all three of them were injured during the Tournament of 1792, when a cockatrice the champions were supposed to be catching went on the rampage.”

That’s my Mione all right. She always knows the answer to everything. She notices us all looking at her and says, with her usual air of impatience that nobody else has read all the books she has, “It’s all in Hogwarts: A History. Though, of course, that book’s not entirely reliable. A Revised History of Hogwarts would be a more accurate title. Or A Highly Biased and Selective History of Hogwarts, Which Glosses Over the Nastier Aspects of the School.”

“What are you on about?” says Ron, though I think I know what is coming.

“House-elves!” says Hermione, her eyes flashing. “Not once, in over a thousand pages, does Hogwarts: A History mention that we are all colluding in the oppression of a hundred slaves!”

Oh Merlin here we go again for the thousandth time. I shake my head and apply myself to my scrambled eggs. Harry, Ron’s, and my lack of enthusiasm has done nothing whatsoever to curb Hermione’s determination to pursue justice for house-elves. True, we have paid two Sickles for a S.P.E.W. badge, but we have only done it to keep her quiet. Our Sickles have been wasted, however; if anything, they seemed to have made Hermione more vociferous. She has been badgering Harry, Ron, and me ever since, first to wear the badges, then to persuade others to do the same, and she has also taken to rattling around the Gryffindor common room every evening, cornering people and shaking the collecting tin under their noses.

“You do realize that your sheets are changed, your fires lit, your classrooms cleaned, and your food cooked by a group of magical creatures who are unpaid and enslaved?” she keeps saying fiercely. Yes I do happen to know that, but there’s nothing that I can do about it. I have enough things to worry about as it is.

Some people, like Neville, have paid up just to stop Hermione from glowering at them. A few seem mildly interested in what she has to say, but are reluctant to take a more active role in campaigning. Many regard the whole thing as a joke.

Ron now rolls his eyes at the ceiling, which is flooding us all in autumn sunlight, and Fred becomes extremely interested in his bacon (both twins have refused to buy a S.P.E.W. badge). George, however, leans in towards Hermione.

“Listen, have you ever been down in the kitchens, Hermione?”

“No, of course not,” says Hermione curtly, “I hardly think students are supposed to —”

“Well, we have,” says George, indicating Fred, “loads of times, to nick food. And we’ve met them, and they’re happy. They think they’ve got the best job in the world —”

I’m glad that they didn’t mention me on those adventures yet. “That’s because they’re uneducated and brainwashed!” Hermione begins hotly, but her next few words are drowned out by a sudden whooshing noise from overhead, which announces the arrival of the post owls. Harry looks up at once, and sees Hedwig soaring towards him. Hermione stops talking abruptly; she, Ron, and I watch Hedwig anxiously as she flutters down onto Harry’s shoulder, folds her wings, and holds out her leg wearily.

Harry pulls off Sirius’s reply and offers Hedwig his bacon rinds, which she eats gratefully. Then, checking that Fred and George are safely immersed in further discussions about the Triwizard Tournament, Harry reads out Sirius’s letter in a whisper to Ron, Hermione, and me.

 

Nice try, Harry.

I’m back in the country and well hidden. I want you to keep me posted on everything that’s going on at Hogwarts. Don’t use Hedwig, keep changing owls, and don’t worry about me, just watch out for yourself. Don’t forget what I said about your scar.

 

“Why d’you have to keep changing owls?” Ron asks in a low voice.

“Hedwig’ll attract too much attention,” I explain. “She stands out. A snowy owl that keeps returning to wherever he’s hiding . . . I mean, they’re not native birds, are they?”

Hermione looks mildly shocked that I know that. “What I know some things.” I say defensively.

There is a pleasant feeling of anticipation in the air this day. Nobody is very attentive in lessons, being much more interested in the arrival that evening of the people from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang; even Potions is more bearable than usual, as it is half an hour shorter. When the bell rings early, Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I hurry up to Gryffindor Tower, deposit our bags and books as we have been instructed, pull on our cloaks, and rush back downstairs into the entrance hall.

The Heads of Houses are ordering their students into lines.

“Weasley, straighten your hat,” Professor McGonagall snaps at Ron. “Miss Patil, take that ridiculous thing out of your hair.”

Parvati scowls and removes a large ornamental butterfly from the end of her plait. “Follow me, please,” says Professor McGonagall. “First years in front . . . no pushing. . . .”

We file down the steps and line up in front of the castle. It is a cold, clear evening; dusk is falling and a pale, transparent-looking moon is already shining over the Forbidden Forest. Standing between Harry and Hermione in the fourth row from the front, I see Dennis Creevey positively shivering with anticipation among the other first years.

“Nearly six,” says Ron, checking his watch and then staring down the drive that leads to the front gates. “How d’you reckon they’re coming? The train?”

“I doubt it,” says Hermione.

“How, then? Broomsticks?” Harry suggests, looking up at the starry sky.

“I don’t think so . . . not from that far away. . . .” I say absently.

“A Portkey?” Ron suggests. “Or they could Apparate — maybe you’re allowed to do it under seventeen wherever they come from?”

“You can’t Apparate inside the Hogwarts grounds, how often do I have to tell you?” says Hermione impatiently.

We scan the darkening grounds excitedly, but nothing is moving; everything is still, silent, and quiet as usual. I am starting to feel cold. I wish they’d hurry up. . . . Maybe the foreign students are preparing a dramatic entrance. . . . I remember what Mr. Weasley had said back at the campsite before the Quidditch World Cup: “always the same — we can’t resist showing off when we get together. . . .”

And then Dumbledore calls out from the back row where he stands with the other teachers —

“Aha! Unless I am very much mistaken, the delegation from Beauxbatons approaches!”

“Where?” say many students eagerly, all looking in different directions. Well here we go on to the next adventure at Hogwarts.

“There!” yells a sixth year, pointing over the forest. Something large, much larger than a broomstick — or, indeed, a hundred broomsticks — is hurtling across the deep blue sky towards the castle, growing larger all the time.

“It’s a dragon!” shrieks one of the first years, losing her head completely.

“Don’t be stupid . . . it’s a flying house!” says Dennis Creevey.

Dennis’s guess is closer. . . . As the gigantic black shape skims over the treetops of the Forbidden Forest and the lights shining from the castle windows hit it, we see a gigantic, powder-blue, horse-drawn carriage, the size of a large house, soaring towards us, pulled through the air by a dozen winged horses, all palominos, and each the size of an elephant.

The front three rows of students draw backwards as the carriage hurtles ever lower, coming in to land at a tremendous speed — then, with an almighty crash that makes Neville jump backwards onto a Slytherin fifth year’s foot, the horses’ hooves, larger than dinner plates, hit the ground. A second later, the carriage lands too, bouncing upon its vast wheels, while the golden horses toss their enormous heads and roll large, fiery red eyes.

I just have time to see that the door of the carriage bears a coat of arms (two crossed, golden wands, each emitting three stars) before it opens.

A boy in pale blue robes jumps down from the carriage, bends forward, fumbles for a moment with something on the carriage floor, and unfolds a set of golden steps. He springs back respectfully. Then I see a shining, high-heeled black shoe emerging from the inside of the carriage — a shoe the size of a child’s sled — followed, almost immediately, by the largest woman I have ever seen in my life. The size of the carriage, and of the horses, is immediately explained. A few people gasp (I might be one of them).

I have only ever seen one person as large as this woman in my life, and that is Hagrid; I doubt whether there is an inch difference in their heights. Yet somehow — maybe simply because I am used to Hagrid — this woman (now at the foot of the steps, and looking around at the waiting, wide-eyed crowd) seems even more unnaturally large. As she steps into the light flooding from the entrance hall, she is revealed to have a handsome, olive-skinned face; large, black, liquid-looking eyes; and a rather beaky nose. Her hair is drawn back in a shining knob at the base of her neck. She is dressed from head to foot in black satin, and many magnificent opals gleam at her throat and on her thick fingers.

This must be their headmistress. Dumbledore starts to clap; the students, following his lead, break into applause too, many of them standing on tiptoe, the better to look at this woman.

Her face relaxes into a gracious smile and she walks forward towards Dumbledore, extending a glittering hand. Dumbledore, though tall himself, has barely to bend to kiss it.

“My dear Madame Maxime,” he says. “Welcome to Hogwarts.”

“Dumbly-dorr,” says Madame Maxime in a deep voice. “I ’ope I find you well?” Oh this is perfect material to use on Ariana. I scan the crowd to catch her eye, and when she sees me, her eyes widen and she shakes her head furiously at me. I mouth Dumbly-dorr and she scowls.

“In excellent form, I thank you,” says Dumbledore.

“My pupils,” says Madame Maxime, waving one of her enormous hands carelessly behind her.

My attention had been focused completely upon Madame Maxime, and I now notice that about a dozen boys and girls, all, by the look of them, in their late teens, have emerged from the carriage and are now standing behind Madame Maxime. They are shivering, which is unsurprising, given that their robes seem to be made of fine silk, and none of them are wearing cloaks. A few have wrapped scarves and shawls around their heads. From what I can see of them (they are standing in Madame Maxime’s enormous shadow), they are staring up at Hogwarts with apprehensive looks on their faces.

“’As Karkaroff arrived yet?” Madame Maxime asks.

“He should be here any moment,” says Dumbledore. “Would you like to wait here and greet him or would you prefer to step inside and warm up a trifle?”

“Warm up, I think,” says Madame Maxime. “But ze ’orses —”

“Our Care of Magical Creatures teacher will be delighted to take care of them,” says Dumbledore, “the moment he has returned from dealing with a slight situation that has arisen with some of his other — er — charges.”

“Skrewts,” Ron mutters to me, grinning.

“My steeds require — er — forceful ’andling,” says Madame Maxime, looking as though she doubts whether any Care of Magical Creatures teacher at Hogwarts could be up to the job. “Zey are very strong. . . .”

“So is Hagrid.” I whisper.

“I assure you that Hagrid will be well up to the job,” says Dumbledore, smiling.

“Very well,” says Madame Maxime, bowing slightly. “Will you please inform zis ’Agrid zat ze ’orses drink only single-malt whiskey?” Wow picky horses.

“It will be attended to,” says Dumbledore, also bowing.

“Come,” says Madame Maxime imperiously to her students, and the Hogwarts crowd parts to allow her and her students to pass up the stone steps. I don’t think that I would have done well at Beauxbatons.

“How big d’you reckon Durmstrang’s horses are going to be?” Seamus Finnigan says, leaning around Lavender and Parvati to address Harry, Ron, and me.

“Well, if they’re any bigger than this lot, even Hagrid won’t be able to handle them,” says Harry. “That’s if he hasn’t been attacked by his skrewts. Wonder what’s up with them?”

“Maybe they’ve escaped,” says Ron hopefully.

“Oh don’t say that,” says Hermione with a shudder. “Imagine that lot loose on the grounds. . . .”

We stand, shivering slightly now, waiting for the Durmstrang party to arrive. Well I make faces across the way to Luka and Ariana to pass the time. Most people are gazing hopefully up at the sky. For a few minutes, the silence is broken only by Madame Maxime’s huge horses snorting and stamping. But then —

“Can you hear something?” says Ron suddenly. I listen; a loud and oddly eerie noise is drifting towards us from out of the darkness: a muffled rumbling and sucking sound, as though an immense vacuum cleaner is moving along a riverbed. . . .

“The lake!” yells Lee Jordan, pointing down at it. “Look at the lake!” Oh you have got to be kidding me!

From our position at the top of the lawns overlooking the grounds, we have a clear view of the smooth black surface of the water — except that the surface is suddenly not smooth at all. Some disturbance is taking place deep in the center; great bubbles are forming on the surface, waves are now washing over the muddy banks — and then, out in the very middle of the lake, a whirlpool appears, as if a giant plug has just been pulled out of the lake’s floor. . . .

What seems to be a long, black pole begins to rise slowly out of the heart of the whirlpool . . . and then I see the rigging. . . .

“It’s a mast!” I say to Ron, Hermione, and Harry.

Slowly, magnificently, the ship rises out of the water, gleaming in the moonlight. It has a strangely skeletal look about it, as though it is a resurrected wreck, and the dim, misty lights shimmering at its portholes look like ghostly eyes. Finally, with a great sloshing noise, the ship emerges entirely, bobbing on the turbulent water, and begins to glide towards the bank. A few moments later, we hear the splash of an anchor being thrown down in the shallows, and the thud of a plank being lowered onto the bank.

Well I guess some schools really like making grand entrances. People are disembarking; we can see their silhouettes passing the lights in the ship’s portholes. All of them, I notice, seem to be built along the lines of Crabbe and Goyle . . . but then, as they draw nearer, walking up the lawns into the light streaming from the entrance hall, I see that their bulk is really due to the fact that they are wearing cloaks of some kind of shaggy, matted fur. But the man who is leading them up to the castle is wearing furs of a different sort: sleek and silver, like his hair.

“Dumbledore!” he calls heartily as he walks up the slope. “How are you, my dear fellow, how are you?”

“Blooming, thank you, Professor Karkaroff,” Dumbledore replies. Oh you have to love Headmaster Dumbledore.

Karkaroff has a fruity, unctuous voice; when he steps into the light pouring from the front doors of the castle we see that he is tall and thin like Dumbledore, but his white hair is short, and his goatee (finishing in a small curl) does not entirely hide his rather weak chin. When he reaches Dumbledore, he shakes hands with both of his own.

“Dear old Hogwarts,” he says, looking up at the castle and smiling; his teeth are rather yellow, and I notice that his smile does not extend to his eyes, which remain cold and shrewd. “How good it is to be here, how good. . . . Viktor, come along, into the warmth . . . you don’t mind, Dumbledore? Viktor has a slight head cold. . . .”

Karkaroff beckons forward one of his students. As the boy passes, I catch a glimpse of a prominent curved nose and thick black eyebrows. I don’t need the punch on the arm Ron gives me, or the hiss in my ear, to recognize that profile.

“Harry, Jamie, — it’s Krum!” And let Ron’s epic bromace with Krum begin yet again.


	14. The Goblet of Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything you recognize is J.K. Rowling's. Except Jamie, Luka, and Ariana.

Chapter 14- The Goblet of Fire

 

“I don’t believe it!” Ron says, in a stunned voice, as the Hogwarts students file back up the steps behind the party from Durmstrang. “Krum, Harry! Viktor Krum!”

“For heaven’s sake, Ron, he’s only a Quidditch player,” says Hermione.

“Only a Quidditch player?” Ron says, looking at her as though he can’t believe his ears. “Hermione — he’s one of the best Seekers in the world! I had no idea he was still at school!”

As we recross the entrance hall with the rest of the Hogwarts students heading for the Great Hall, I see Lee Jordan jumping up and down on the soles of his feet to get a better look at the back of Krum’s head. Several sixth-year girls are frantically searching their pockets as they walk —

“Oh I don’t believe it, I haven’t got a single quill on me —”

“D’you think he’d sign my hat in lipstick?”

“Really,” Hermione says loftily as we pass the girls, now squabbling over the lipstick.

“I dunno maybe if you squint your eyes and turn your head like so he looks attractive.” I say demonstrating the head position needed. Hermione giggles.

“I’m getting his autograph if I can,” says Ron. “You haven’t got a quill, have you, Harry?”

“Nope, they’re upstairs in my bag,” says Harry.

We walk over to the Gryffindor table and sit down. Ron takes care to sit on the side facing the doorway, because Krum and his fellow Durmstrang students are still gathered around it, apparently unsure about where they should sit. The students from Beauxbatons have chosen seats at the Ravenclaw table. They are looking around the Great Hall with glum expressions on their faces. Three of them are still clutching scarves and shawls around their heads.

“It’s not that cold,” says Hermione defensively. “Why didn’t they bring cloaks?”

“Over here! Come and sit over here!” Ron hisses. “Over here! Hermione, budge up, make a space —”

“What?”

“Too late,” says Ron bitterly.

Viktor Krum and his fellow Durmstrang students have settled themselves at the Slytherin table. I can see Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle looking very smug about this. As I watch, Malfoy bends forward to speak to Krum.

“Yeah, that’s right, smarm up to him, Malfoy,” says Ron scathingly. “I bet Krum can see right through him, though . . . bet he gets people fawning over him all the time. . . . Where d’you reckon they’re going to sleep? We could offer him a space in our dormitory, Harry . . . I wouldn’t mind giving him my bed, I could kip on a camp bed.”

Hermione snorts and I roll my eyes at that statement. “They look a lot happier than the Beauxbatons lot,” says Harry.

The Durmstrang students are pulling off their heavy furs and looking up at the starry black ceiling with expressions of interest; a couple of them are picking up the golden plates and goblets and examining them, apparently impressed.

Up at the staff table, Filch, the caretaker, is adding chairs. He is wearing his moldy old tailcoat in honor of the occasion. I am surprised to see that he adds four chairs, two on either side of Dumbledore’s.

“But there are only two extra people,” I comment. “Why’s Filch putting out four chairs, who else is coming?”

“Eh?” says Ron vaguely. He is still staring avidly at Krum.

When all the students have entered the Hall and settled down at their House tables, the staff enters, filing up to the top table and taking their seats. Last in line are Professor Dumbledore, Professor Karkaroff, and Madame Maxime. When their headmistress appears, the pupils from Beauxbatons leap to their feet. A few of the Hogwarts students laugh. The Beauxbatons party appears quite unembarrassed, however, and does not resume their seats until Madame Maxime has sat down on Dumbledore’s left-hand side. Dumbledore remains standing, and a silence falls over the Great Hall.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, ghosts and — most particularly — guests,” says Dumbledore, beaming around at the foreign students. “I have great pleasure in welcoming you all to Hogwarts. I hope and trust that your stay here will be both comfortable and enjoyable.”

One of the Beauxbatons girls still clutching a muffler around her head gives what is unmistakably a derisive laugh.

“No one’s making you stay!” Hermione whispers, bristling at her. Okay maybe she is taking this a little too far.

“The tournament will be officially opened at the end of the feast,” says Dumbledore. “I now invite you all to eat, drink, and make yourselves at home!”

He sits down, and I see Karkaroff lean forward at once and engage him in conversation.

The plates in front of them fill with food as usual. The house-elves in the kitchen seem to have pulled out all the stops; there is a greater variety of dishes in front of us than I have ever seen, including several that are definitely foreign.

“What’s that?” says Ron, pointing at a large dish of some sort of shellfish stew that stands beside a large steak-and-kidney pudding.

“Bouillabaisse,” says Hermione.

“Bless you,” says Ron.

“It’s French,” says Hermione, “I had it on holiday summer before last. It’s very nice.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” replies Ron, helping himself to black pudding. The Great Hall seems somehow much more crowded than usual, even though there are barely twenty additional students here; perhaps it is because their differently colored uniforms stand out so clearly against the black of the Hogwarts robes. Now that they have removed their furs, the Durmstrang students are revealed to be wearing robes of a deep bloodred.

Hagrid sidles into the Hall through a door behind the staff table twenty minutes after the start of the feast. He slides into his seat at the end and waves at Harry, Ron, Hermione, and me with a very heavily bandaged hand.

“Skrewts doing all right, Hagrid?” Harry calls.

“Thrivin’,” Hagrid returns back happily.

“Yeah, I’ll just bet they are,” says Ron quietly. “Looks like they’ve finally found a food they like, doesn’t it? Hagrid’s fingers.” I roll my eyes at that, but part of me wonders if that’s just the case.

At that moment, a voice says, “Excuse me, are you wanting ze bouillabaisse?”

It was the girl from Beauxbatons who had laughed during Dumbledore’s speech. She has finally removed her muffler. A long sheet of silvery-blonde hair falls almost to her waist. She has large, deep blue eyes, and very white, even teeth.

Ron goes purple. He stares up at her, opens his mouth to reply, but nothing comes out except a faint gurgling noise. I do have to admit she is very pretty.

“Yeah, have it,” says Harry, pushing the dish toward the girl. Boys they have been turning into drooling messes since the beginning of time.

“You ’ave finished wiz it?”

“Yeah,” Ron says breathlessly. “Yeah, it was excellent.”

The girl picks up the dish and carries it carefully off to the Ravenclaw table. Ron is still goggling at the girl as though he has never seen one before. Harry starts to laugh. The sound seems to jog Ron back to his senses. I roll my eyes at him. I really think that he is still part caveman.

“She’s a veela!” he says hoarsely to Harry.

“Of course she isn’t!” says Hermione tartly. “I don’t see anyone else gaping at her like an idiot!”

But she isn’t entirely right about that. As the girl crosses the Hall, many boys’ heads turn, and some of them seem to have become temporarily speechless, just like Ron. I even manage to see my brother with a bright red blush adorning his cheeks. That might also be since he is sitting near them.

“I’m telling you, that’s not a normal girl!” says Ron, leaning sideways so he can keep a clear view of her. “They don’t make them like that at Hogwarts!”

“They make them okay at Hogwarts,” says Harry without thinking. Cho happens to be sitting only a few places away from the girl with the silvery hair.

“When you’ve both put your eyes back in,” says Hermione briskly, “you’ll be able to see who’s just arrived.”

“Oh Hermione give it a rest they’re boys, they can’t help themselves from drooling stupidly.” I say. Ginny snickers from further down the table overhearing my comment. I grin at her and she smiles back at me.

Hermione is pointing up at the staff table. The two remaining empty seats have just been filled. Ludo Bagman is now sitting on Professor Karkaroff’s other side, while Mr. Crouch, Percy’s boss, is next to Madame Maxime. Well this is a surprise.

“What are they doing here?” asks Harry in surprise.

“They organized the Triwizard Tournament, didn’t they?” says Hermione. “I suppose they wanted to be here to see it start.”

When the second course arrives we notice a number of unfamiliar desserts too. Ron examines an odd sort of pale blancmange closely, then moves it carefully a few inches to his right, so that it would be clearly visible from the Ravenclaw table. The girl who looks like a veela appears to have eaten enough, however, and does not come over to get it.

Thank Merlin for that too. I don’t think the boys would survive round two with her. Once the golden plates have been wiped clean, Dumbledore stands up again. A pleasant sort of tension seems to fill the Hall now. I feel a slight thrill of excitement, wondering what is coming. Several seats down from us, Fred and George are leaning forward, staring at Dumbledore with great concentration.

“The moment has come,” says Dumbledore, smiling around at the sea of upturned faces. “The Triwizard Tournament is about to start. I would like to say a few words of explanation before we bring in the casket —”

“The what?” Harry mutters. Ron shrugs. A casket, I don’t think that we need a casket here do we?

“— just to clarify the procedure that we will be following this year. But first, let me introduce, for those who do not know them, Mr. Bartemius Crouch, Head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation” — there is a smattering of polite applause — “and Mr. Ludo Bagman, Head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports.”

There is a much louder round of applause for Bagman than for Crouch, perhaps because of his fame as a Beater, or simply because he looks so much more likable. He acknowledges it with a jovial wave of his hand. Bartemius Crouch does not smile or wave when his name is announced. Remembering him in his neat suit at the Quidditch World Cup, he looks strange in wizard’s robes. His toothbrush mustache and severe parting look very odd next to Dumbledore’s long white hair and beard.

Quite the odd couple they make indeed. “Mr. Bagman and Mr. Crouch have worked tirelessly over the last few months on the arrangements for the Triwizard Tournament,” Dumbledore continues, “and they will be joining myself, Professor Karkaroff, and Madame Maxime on the panel that will judge the champions’ efforts.”

At the mention of the word “champions,” the attentiveness of the listening students seems to sharpen. Perhaps Dumbledore has noticed our sudden stillness, for he smiles as he says, “The casket, then, if you please, Mr. Filch.”

Filch, who has been lurking unnoticed in a far corner of the Hall, now approaches Dumbledore carrying a great wooden chest encrusted with jewels. It looks extremely old. A murmur of excited interest rises from the watching students; Dennis Creevey actually stands on his chair to see it properly, but, being so tiny, his head hardly rises above anyone else’s.

“The instructions for the tasks the champions will face this year have already been examined by Mr. Crouch and Mr. Bagman,” says Dumbledore as Filch places the chest carefully on the table before him, “and they have made the necessary arrangements for each challenge. There will be three tasks, spaced throughout the school year, and they will test the champions in many different ways . . . their magical prowess — their daring — their powers of deduction — and, of course, their ability to cope with danger.”

At this last word, the Hall is filled with a silence so absolute that nobody seems to be breathing. “As you know, three champions compete in the tournament,” Dumbledore goes on calmly, “one from each of the participating schools. They will be marked on how well they perform each of the tournament tasks and the champion with the highest total after task three will win the Triwizard Cup. The champions will be chosen by an impartial selector: the Goblet of Fire.”

Dumbledore now takes out his wand and taps three times upon the top of the casket. The lid creaks slowly open. Dumbledore reaches inside it and pulls out a large, roughly hewn wooden cup. It would be entirely unremarkable if it was not full to the brim with dancing blue-white flames.

Dumbledore closes the casket and places the goblet carefully on top of it, where it is clearly visible to everyone in the Hall.

“Anybody wishing to submit themselves as champion must write their name and school clearly upon a slip of parchment and drop it into the goblet,” says Dumbledore. “Aspiring champions have twenty-four hours in which to put their names forward. Tomorrow night, Halloween, the goblet will return the names of the three it has judged most worthy to represent their schools. The goblet will be placed in the entrance hall tonight, where it will be freely accessible to all those wishing to compete.

“To ensure that no underage student yields to temptation,” says Dumbledore, “I will be drawing an Age Line around the Goblet of Fire once it has been placed in the entrance hall. Nobody under the age of seventeen will be able to cross this line.”

“Finally, I wish to impress upon any of you wishing to compete that this tournament is not to be entered into lightly. Once a champion has been selected by the Goblet of Fire, he or she is obliged to see the tournament through to the end. The placing of your name in the goblet constitutes a binding, magical contract. There can be no change of heart once you have become a champion. Please be very sure, therefore, that you are wholeheartedly prepared to play before you drop your name into the goblet. Now, I think it is time for bed. Good night to you all.”

“An Age Line!” Fred Weasley says, his eyes glinting, as we all make our way across the Hall to the doors into the entrance hall. “Well, that should be fooled by an Aging Potion, shouldn’t it? And once your name’s in that goblet, you’re laughing — it can’t tell whether you’re seventeen or not!”

“But I don’t think anyone under seventeen will stand a chance,” says Hermione, “we just haven’t learned enough . . .”

“Speak for yourself,” says George shortly. “You’ll try and get in, won’t you, Harry?” I pause because I hadn’t thought before that Harry would actually want to put in his name let alone actually put in his name.

“Where is he?” says Ron, who isn’t listening to a word of this conversation, but looking through the crowd to see what has become of Krum. “Dumbledore didn’t say where the Durmstrang people are sleeping, did he?”

But this query is answered almost instantly; we are level with the Slytherin table now, and Karkaroff has just bustled up to his students.

“Back to the ship, then,” he is saying. “Viktor, how are you feeling? Did you eat enough? Should I send for some mulled wine from the kitchens?”

I see Krum shake his head as he pulls his furs back on. “Professor, I vood like some vine,” says one of the other Durmstrang boys hopefully.

“I wasn’t offering it to you, Poliakoff,” snaps Karkaroff, his warmly paternal air vanishing in an instant. “I notice you have dribbled food all down the front of your robes again, disgusting boy —” Well isn’t he just the most charming man you’ve ever met?

Karkaroff turns and leads his students towards the doors, reaching them at exactly the same moment as Harry, Ron, Hermione, and me. Harry stops to let him walk through first.

“Thank you,” says Karkaroff carelessly, glancing at him.

And then Karkaroff freezes. He turns his head back to Harry and stares at him as though he can’t believe his eyes. Behind their headmaster, the students from Durmstrang come to a halt too. Karkaroff’s eyes move slowly up Harry’s face and fix upon his scar. The Durmstrang students are staring curiously at Harry too. Out of the corner of my eye, I see comprehension dawn on a few of their faces. The boy with food all down his front nudges the girl next to him and points openly at Harry’s forehead.

“Yeah, that’s Harry Potter,” says a growling voice from behind us. I don’t think that I’ve ever been more pleased for Moody to show up suddenly.

Professor Karkaroff spins around. Mad-Eye Moody is standing there, leaning heavily on his staff, his magical eye glaring unblinkingly at the Durmstrang headmaster.

The color drains from Karkaroff’s face as I watch. A terrible look of mingled fury and fear comes over him.

“You!” he says, staring at Moody as though unsure he is really seeing him.

“Me,” says Moody grimly. “And unless you’ve got anything to say to Potter, Karkaroff, you might want to move. You’re blocking the doorway.”

It is true; half the students in the Hall are now waiting behind us, looking over one another’s shoulders to see what is causing the holdup.

Without another word, Professor Karkaroff sweeps his students away with him. Moody watches him until he is out of sight, his magical eye fixed upon his back, a look of intense dislike upon his mutilated face. I wonder what that’s all about?

* * *

 

As the next day is Saturday, most students would normally have breakfasted late. Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I however, are not alone in rising much earlier than we usually do on weekends. When we go down into the entrance hall, we see about twenty people milling around it, some of them eating toast, all examining the Goblet of Fire. It has been placed in the center of the hall on the stool that normally bears the Sorting Hat. A thin golden line has been traced on the floor, forming a circle ten feet around it in every direction.

“Anyone put their name in yet?” Ron asks a third-year girl eagerly.

“All the Durmstrang lot,” she replies. “But I haven’t seen anyone from Hogwarts yet.”

“Bet some of them put it in last night after we’d all gone to bed,” says Harry. “I would’ve if it had been me . . . wouldn’t have wanted everyone watching. What if the goblet just gobbed you right back out again?” I raise my eyebrow at my friend for that statement. A small part of me is worried that Harry might have actually tried it. I shake my mind off that possibility though since Harry has been too busy to actually make an aging potion.

Someone laughs behind me. Turning, I see Fred, George, and Lee Jordan hurrying down the staircase, all three of them looking extremely excited.

“Done it,” Fred says in a triumphant whisper to Harry, Ron, Hermione, and me. “Just taken it.”

“What?” says Ron.

“The Aging Potion, dung brains,” says Fred.

“One drop each,” says George, rubbing his hands together with glee. “We only need to be a few months older.”

Oh Merlin I have a feeling that this isn’t going to end very well. “We’re going to split the thousand Galleons between the three of us if one of us wins,” says Lee, grinning broadly.

“I’m not sure this is going to work, you know,” says Hermione warningly. “I’m sure Dumbledore will have thought of this.”

Fred, George, and Lee ignore her. “Ready?” Fred says to the other two, quivering with excitement. “C’mon, then — I’ll go first —”

I watch, fascinated, as Fred pulls a slip of parchment out of his pocket bearing the words Fred Weasley — Hogwarts. Fred walks right up to the edge of the line and stands there, rocking on his toes like a diver preparing for a fifty-foot drop. Then, with the eyes of every person in the entrance hall upon him, he takes a great breath and steps over the line.

For a split second I think it has worked — George certainly thinks so, for he lets out a yell of triumph and leaps after Fred — but next moment, there is a loud sizzling sound, and both twins are hurled out of the golden circle as though they have been thrown by an invisible shot-putter. They land painfully, ten feet away on the cold stone floor, and to add insult to injury, there is a loud popping noise, and both of them sprout identical long white beards. Oh this is too good to be true.

I erupt into laughter along with everyone in the entrance hall. Even Fred and George join in, once they have gotten to their feet and taken a good look at each other’s beards. “I can’t believe they actually tried it. Grandfather did warn them.” Ariana says coming up beside me. I flick my gaze over to her and shrug my shoulders.

“They’re Fred and George everything must be tried at least once.” I say simply.

“I did warn you,” says a deep, amused voice, and everyone turns to see Professor Dumbledore coming out of the Great Hall. He surveys Fred and George, his eyes twinkling. “I suggest you both go up to Madam Pomfrey. She is already tending to Miss Fawcett, of Ravenclaw, and Mr. Summers, of Hufflepuff, both of whom decided to age themselves up a little too. Though I must say, neither of their beards is anything like as fine as yours.”

Fred and George set off for the hospital wing, accompanied by Lee, who is howling with laughter, and Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I also chortling, go in to breakfast.

The decorations in the Great Hall have changed this morning. As it is Halloween, a cloud of live bats are fluttering around the enchanted ceiling, while hundreds of carved pumpkins leer from every corner. Harry leads the way over to Dean and Seamus, who are discussing those Hogwarts students of seventeen or over who might be entering.

“There’s a rumor going around that Warrington got up early and put his name in,” Dean tells us. “That big bloke from Slytherin who looks like a sloth.”

I have played Quidditch against Warrington, and shake my head in disgust. “We can’t have a Slytherin champion!”

“And all the Hufflepuffs are talking about Diggory,” says Seamus contemptuously. “But I wouldn’t have thought he’d have wanted to risk his good looks.”

“Listen!” says Hermione suddenly. People are cheering out in the entrance hall. We all swivel around in our seats and see Angelina Johnson coming into the Hall, grinning in an embarrassed sort of way. A tall black girl who plays Chaser on the Gryffindor Quidditch team (my fellow chaser and teammate), Angelina comes over to us, sits down, and says, “Well, I’ve done it! Just put my name in!”

“You’re kidding!” says Ron, looking impressed.

“Are you seventeen, then?” asks Harry.

“’Course she is, can’t see a beard, can you?” says Ron.

“I had my birthday last week,” says Angelina.

“Well, I’m glad someone from Gryffindor’s entering,” says Hermione. “I really hope you get it, Angelina!”

“Thanks, Hermione,” says Angelina, smiling at her.

“You’d do great as a Champion Angie I’ve played with you enough times to know that.” I say with a grin. Angelina rolls her eyes at me and reaches across the table to ruffle my hair. I shoot her an indignant and faux hurtful look in return.

“I have to be on the top of my game to wrangle you in line Pendragon.” She responds mirthfully. I huff and grin back at her.

“Yeah, better you than Pretty-Boy Diggory,” says Seamus, causing several Hufflepuffs passing our table to scowl heavily at him.

“What’re we going to do today, then?” Ron asks Harry, Hermione, and me when we had finished breakfast and are leaving the Great Hall.

“We haven’t been down to visit Hagrid yet,” says Harry.

“Okay,” says Ron, “just as long as he doesn’t ask us to donate a few fingers to the skrewts.”

A look of great excitement suddenly dawns on Hermione’s face. “I’ve just realized — I haven’t asked Hagrid to join S.P.E.W. yet!” she says brightly. “Wait for me, will you, while I nip upstairs and get the badges?”

“What is it with her?” says Ron, exasperated, as Hermione ran away up the marble staircase.

“Hermione is out to save the world one magical race at a time.” I reply very seriously. I think that once she gets older the world will be a much better place to live in because of her.

“Hey, Ron,” says Harry suddenly. “It’s your friend . . .”

The students from Beauxbatons are coming through the front doors from the grounds, among them, the veela-girl. Those gathered around the Goblet of Fire stand back to let them pass, watching eagerly.

Madame Maxime enters the hall behind her students and organizes them into a line. One by one, the Beauxbatons students step across the Age Line and drop their slips of parchment into the blue-white flames. As each name enters the fire, it turns briefly red and emits sparks.

“What d’you reckon’ll happen to the ones who aren’t chosen?” Ron mutters to us as the veela-girl drops her parchment into the Goblet of Fire. “Reckon they’ll go back to school, or hang around to watch the tournament?”

I have no idea but part of me hopes that the veela-girl doesn’t get chosen just so that she doesn’t have to get accosted by all the boys here.

“She’s pretty isn’t she?” Ariana says again popping up mysteriously beside me. I jump and turn my gaze to her. Her brown eyes usually can tell me how she’s feeling but today I just can’t seem to get a read on her.

“Yes, but she looks a little too pretty don’t you think— almost like she’s fake. Personally I like blondes who are actually blond not near white.” I say. I flush darkly when I realize what exactly I’ve just said, but the positively beaming smile that I receive from Ariana makes up for it.

“I couldn’t agree more.” She tells me before going off back to her dormitory. I blink and wonder what exactly just happened there. With a shake of my head I turn back to my oblivious friends.

“Dunno,” says Harry. “Hang around, I suppose. . . . Madame Maxime’s staying to judge, isn’t she?”

When all the Beauxbatons students have submitted their names, Madame Maxime leads them back out of the hall and out onto the grounds again.

“Where are they sleeping, then?” asks Ron, moving towards the front doors and staring after them. This boy is just crazy, its like she has him under a spell.

A loud rattling noise behind us announces Hermione’s reappearance with the box of S.P.E.W. badges.

“Oh good, hurry up,” says Ron, and he jumps down the stone steps, keeping his eyes on the back of the veela-girl, who is now halfway across the lawn with Madame Maxime.

As we near Hagrid’s cabin on the edge of the Forbidden Forest, the mystery of the Beauxbatons’ sleeping quarters is solved. The gigantic powder-blue carriage in which they have arrived has been parked two hundred yards from Hagrid’s front door, and the students are climbing back inside it. The elephantine flying horses that have pulled the carriage are now grazing in a makeshift paddock alongside it.

Harry knocks on Hagrid’s door, and Fang’s booming barks answer instantly.

“’Bout time!” says Hagrid, when he’s flung open the door. “Thought you lot’d forgotten where I live!”

“We’ve been really busy, Hag —” Hermione starts to say, but then she stops dead, looking up at Hagrid, apparently lost for words. I can see why.

Hagrid is wearing his best (and very horrible) hairy brown suit, plus a checked yellow-and-orange tie. This isn’t the worst of it, though; he has evidently tried to tame his hair, using large quantities of what appears to be axle grease. It is now slicked down into two bunches — perhaps he has tried a ponytail like Bill’s, but found he has too much hair. The look doesn’t really suit Hagrid at all. For a moment, Hermione goggles at him, then, obviously deciding not to comment, she says, “Erm — where are the skrewts?”

“Out by the pumpkin patch,” says Hagrid happily. “They’re gettin’ massive, mus’ be nearly three foot long now. On’y trouble is, they’ve started killin’ each other.”

“Oh no, really?” I say, shooting a repressive look at Ron, who, staring at Hagrid’s odd hairstyle, has just opened his mouth to say something about it.

“Yeah,” says Hagrid sadly. “’S’ okay, though, I’ve got ’em in separate boxes now. Still got abou’ twenty.”

“Well, that’s lucky,” says Ron. Hagrid misses the sarcasm.

Hagrid’s cabin comprises a single room, in one corner of which is a gigantic bed covered in a patchwork quilt. A similarly enormous wooden table and chairs stand in front of the fire beneath the quantity of cured hams and dead birds hanging from the ceiling. We sit down at the table while Hagrid starts to make tea, and are soon immersed in yet more discussion of the Triwizard Tournament. Hagrid seems quite as excited about it as we are.

“You wait,” he says, grinning. “You jus’ wait. Yer going ter see some stuff yeh’ve never seen before. Firs’ task . . . ah, but I’m not supposed ter say.”

“Go on, Hagrid!” Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I urge him, but he just shakes his head, grinning.

“I don’ want ter spoil it fer yeh,” says Hagrid. “But it’s gonna be spectacular, I’ll tell yeh that. Them champions’re going ter have their work cut out. Never thought I’d live ter see the Triwizard Tournament played again!”

We end up having lunch with Hagrid, though we don’t eat much — Hagrid has made what he says is a beef casserole, but after Hermione unearths a large talon in hers, she, Harry, Ron, and I rather lost our appetites. However, we enjoy ourselves trying to make Hagrid tell us what the tasks in the tournament are going to be, speculating which of the entrants are likely to be selected as champions, and wondering whether Fred and George are beardless yet. Part of me hopes that beards won’t come off for a while.

A light rain has started to fall by midafternoon; it is very cozy sitting by the fire, listening to the gentle patter of the drops on the window, watching Hagrid darning his socks and arguing with Hermione about house-elves — for he flatly refuses to join S.P.E.W. when she shows him her badges.

“It’d be doin’ ’em an unkindness, Hermione,” he says gravely, threading a massive bone needle with thick yellow yarn. “It’s in their nature ter look after humans, that’s what they like, see? Yeh’d be makin’ ’em unhappy ter take away their work, an’ insultin’ ’em if yeh tried ter pay ’em.”

“But Harry set Dobby free, and he was over the moon about it!” says Hermione. “And we heard he’s asking for wages now!”

“Yeah, well, yeh get weirdos in every breed. I’m not sayin’ there isn’t the odd elf who’d take freedom, but yeh’ll never persuade most of ’em ter do it — no, nothin’ doin’, Hermione.”

Hermione looks very cross indeed and stuffs her box of badges back into her cloak pocket. I’m not going to say anything for it will likely end up with me in trouble with her.

By half past five it is growing dark, and Ron, Harry, Hermione, and I decide it is time to get back up to the castle for the Halloween feast — and, more important, the announcement of the school champions.

“I’ll come with yeh,” says Hagrid, putting away his darning. “Jus’ give us a sec.”

Hagrid gets up, goes across to the chest of drawers beside his bed, and begins searching for something inside it. We don’t pay too much attention until a truly horrible smell reaches our nostrils. Coughing, Ron says, “Hagrid, what’s that?”

“Eh?” says Hagrid, turning around with a large bottle in his hand. “Don’ yeh like it?”

“Is that aftershave?” says Hermione in a slightly choked voice.

“Er — eau de cologne,” Hagrid mutters. He is blushing. “Maybe it’s a bit much,” he says gruffly. “I’ll go take it off, hang on . . .”

He stumps out of the cabin, and we see him washing himself vigorously in the water barrel outside the window.

“Eau de cologne?” I say in amazement. “Hagrid?”

“And what’s with the hair and the suit?” says Harry in an undertone.

“Look!” says Ron suddenly, pointing out of the window.

Hagrid has just straightened up and turned ’round. If he was blushing before, it is nothing to what he is doing now. Getting to our feet very cautiously, so that Hagrid won’t spot us, we peer through the window and see that Madame Maxime and the Beauxbatons students have just emerged from their carriage, clearly about to set off for the feast too. We can’t hear what Hagrid is saying, but he is talking to Madame Maxime with a rapt, misty-eyed expression I have only ever seen him wear once before — when he had been looking at the baby dragon, Norbert.

“He’s going up to the castle with her!” says Hermione indignantly. “I thought he was waiting for us!”

Without so much as a backwards glance at his cabin, Hagrid is trudging off up the grounds with Madame Maxime, the Beauxbatons students following in their wake, jogging to keep up with their enormous strides.

“He fancies her!” says Ron incredulously. “Well, if they end up having children, they’ll be setting a world record — bet any baby of theirs would weigh about a ton.” What on earth is wrong with everyone here? Is there some sort of love potion in the air, or is this just the year for romance?

We let ourselves out of the cabin and shut the door behind us. It is surprisingly dark outside. Drawing our cloaks more closely around themselves, we set off up the sloping lawns.

“Ooh it’s them, look!” Hermione whispers.

The Durmstrang party is walking up towards the castle from the lake. Viktor Krum is walking side by side with Karkaroff, and the other Durmstrang students are straggling along behind them. Ron watches Krum excitedly, but Krum does not look around as he reaches the front doors a little ahead of Hermione, Ron, Harry, and me and proceeds through them.

When we enter the candlelit Great Hall it is almost full. The Goblet of Fire has been moved; it is now standing in front of Dumbledore’s empty chair at the teachers’ table. Fred and George — clean-shaven again — seem to have taken their disappointment fairly well.

“Hope it’s Angelina,” says Fred as we sit down. I nod my head in agreement. My teammate could definitely win this thing.

“So do I!” says Hermione breathlessly. “Well, we’ll soon know!”

The Halloween feast seems to take much longer than usual. Perhaps because it is our second feast in two days, I don’t seem to fancy the extravagantly prepared food as much as I would have normally. Like everyone else in the Hall, judging by the constantly craning necks, the impatient expressions on every face, the fidgeting, and the standing up to see whether Dumbledore has finished eating yet, I simply want the plates to clear, and to hear who has been selected as champions.

At long last, the golden plates return to their original spotless state; there is a sharp upswing in the level of noise within the Hall, which dies away almost instantly as Dumbledore gets to his feet. On either side of him, Professor Karkaroff and Madame Maxime look as tense and expectant as anyone. Ludo Bagman is beaming and winking at various students. Mr. Crouch, however, looks quite uninterested, almost bored. No wonder Percy works for him.

“Well, the goblet is almost ready to make its decision,” says Dumbledore. “I estimate that it requires one more minute. Now, when the champions’ names are called, I would ask them please to come up to the top of the Hall, walk along the staff table, and go through into the next chamber” — he indicates the door behind the staff table — “where they will be receiving their first instructions.”

He takes out his wand and gives a great sweeping wave with it; at once, all the candles except those inside the carved pumpkins are extinguished, plunging us into a state of semidarkness. The Goblet of Fire now shines more brightly than anything in the whole Hall, the sparkling bright, bluey-whiteness of the flames almost painful on the eyes. Everyone watches, waiting. . . . A few people keep checking their watches. . . .

“Any second,” Lee Jordan whispers, two seats away from Harry. The flames inside the goblet turn suddenly red again. Sparks begin to fly from it. Next moment, a tongue of flame shoots into the air, a charred piece of parchment flutters out of it — the whole room gasps.

Dumbledore catches the piece of parchment and holds it at arm’s length, so that he can read it by the light of the flames, which has turned back to blue-white.

“The champion for Durmstrang,” he reads, in a strong, clear voice, “will be Viktor Krum.”

“No surprises there!” yells Ron as a storm of applause and cheering sweeps the Hall. I see Viktor Krum rise from the Slytherin table and slouch up towards Dumbledore; he turns right, walks along the staff table, and disappears through the door into the next chamber.

“Bravo, Viktor!” booms Karkaroff, so loudly that everyone can hear him, even over all the applause. “Knew you had it in you!”

The clapping and chatting dies down. Now everyone’s attention is focused again on the goblet, which, seconds later, turns red once more. A second piece of parchment shoots out of it, propelled by the flames.

“The champion for Beauxbatons,” says Dumbledore, “is Fleur Delacour!”

“It’s her, Ron!” I shout as the girl who so resembled a veela gets gracefully to her feet, shakes back her sheet of silvery blonde hair, and sweeps up between the Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff tables.

I’m not too surprised by the outcome of that selection quite honestly. “Oh look, they’re all disappointed,” Hermione says over the noise, nodding towards the remainder of the Beauxbatons party. “Disappointed” is a bit of an understatement, I think. Two of the girls who have not been selected have dissolved into tears and are sobbing with their heads on their arms.

When Fleur Delacour too has vanished into the side chamber, silence falls again, but this time it is a silence so stiff with excitement you can almost taste it. The Hogwarts champion next . . .

And the Goblet of Fire turns red once more; sparks shower out of it; the tongue of flame shoots high into the air, and from its tip Dumbledore pulls the third piece of parchment.

“The Hogwarts champion,” he calls, “is Cedric Diggory!” Oh well that’s rather disappointing.

“No!” says Ron loudly, but nobody heards him except Harry and me; the uproar from the next table is too great. Every single Hufflepuff has jumped to his or her feet, screaming and stamping, as Cedric makes his way past them, grinning broadly, and heading off towards the chamber behind the teachers’ table. Indeed, the applause for Cedric goes on so long that it is some time before Dumbledore can make himself heard again.

“Excellent!” Dumbledore calls happily as at last the tumult dies down. “Well, we now have our three champions. I am sure I can count upon all of you, including the remaining students from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang, to give your champions every ounce of support you can muster. By cheering your champion on, you will contribute in a very real —”

But Dumbledore suddenly stops speaking, and it is apparent to everybody what has distracted him.

The fire in the goblet has just turned red again. Sparks are flying out of it. A long flame shoots suddenly into the air, and borne upon it is another piece of parchment.

Automatically, it seems, Dumbledore reaches out a long hand and seizes the parchment. He holds it out and stares at the name written upon it. There is a long pause, during which Dumbledore stares at the slip in his hands, and everyone in the room stares at Dumbledore. And then Dumbledore clears his throat and reads out —

“Harry Potter.” No. That can’t be.

There is no applause. A buzzing, as though of angry bees, is starting to fill the Hall; some students are standing up to get a better look at Harry as he sits, frozen, in his seat.

Up at the top table, Professor McGonagall has gotten to her feet and sweeps past Ludo Bagman and Professor Karkaroff to whisper urgently to Professor Dumbledore, who bends his ear towards her, frowning slightly.

Harry turned to Ron, Hermione, and me; beyond us, the long Gryffindor table is all watching him, openmouthed.

“I didn’t put my name in,” Harry says blankly. “You know I didn’t.”

The three of us stare just as blankly back. I don’t know what to say or to think at the moment.

At the top table, Professor Dumbledore has straightened up, nodding to Professor McGonagall.

“Harry Potter!” he calls again. “Harry! Up here, if you please!”

“Go on,” Hermione whispers, giving Harry a slight push.

I watch as my friend gets up shakily and walks to the front of the Hall with everyone watching him. My eyes don’t leave him until he disappears into the last chamber. Well that wasn’t expected at all.


	15. On the Outs Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything you recognize is J.K. Rowling's. Except Jamie, Luka, and Ariana.

Chapter 15-On the Outs Again

 

Harry didn’t come back until later that night. I still wasn’t quite sure what to think about all of it, except for the fact that one of my best friends was going to be apart of a dangerous life-threatening tournament, and that there’s nothing that I can do to help him, so all in all a sucky feeling.

All of Gryffindor is lounging around the common room waiting for Harry to return. I’m not sure what the predominant feeling is yet anger or excitement. When the portrait hole opens up to let Harry in all hell breaks loose.

Harry is being wrenched inside the common room by about a dozen pairs of hands, and is facing the whole of Gryffindor House, all of whom are screaming, applauding, and whistling.

“You should’ve told us you’d entered!” bellows Fred; he looks half annoyed, half deeply impressed.

“How did you do it without getting a beard? Brilliant!” roars George.

“I didn’t,” Harry says. “I don’t know how —”

But Angelina has now swooped down upon him; “Oh if it couldn’t be me, at least it’s a Gryffindor —”

“You’ll be able to pay back Diggory for that last Quidditch match, Harry!” shrieks Katie Bell, another of the Gryffindor Chasers.

“We’ve got food, Harry, come and have some —”

“I’m not hungry, I had enough at the feast —”

I watch as Harry slowly gets more agitated as time goes on. Everyone wants to know how he got his name in the goblet. I am curious about that as well, but there is something wrong with this whole picture. Finally Harry breaks. He declares that he’s going to bed, but I have to talk to him before that happens.

I get up from my place in one of the chairs and weave over to my friend grabbing him by the arm before he can reach the steps. “I told you— Jamie!” Harry cries a relieved look spreading across his face at the sight of me.

“Are you all right Harry?” I ask him seriously. It only takes me a second to judge by his relieved look that he is not holding up so well.

“You’re the first person to ask me that through all this.” Harry says shakily. I bite my lip and give him a long look.

“Just tell me Harry. You didn’t put you’re name in the goblet right? Please tell me that you didn’t.” I say searching the face of one of my closest friends. Harry looks me in the eye and sighs.

“I didn’t do it. I promise you that Jamie. Dumbledore has a theory, but not tonight. I just need to pretend that all of this didn’t just happen for a little while.” Harry tells me exhaustedly. I nod my head and release his arm slowly.

“I don’t know what it is about you exactly Potter that seems to attract danger. You’re like a bad penny, maybe I should get rid of you.” I muse softly. Harry grins at me disparagingly.

“Well that’s the thing about bad pennies Jamie, you never can seem to git rid of them— no matter how hard you try.” He says, and with that turns and finally climbs up the stairs to his dorm. I blow out a long breath of air and shake my head. I couldn’t just have one normal year at school. I guess that really was just too much to ask.

I make my way up to my dorm and when I get into the room I check on Hermione to see if she’s still up. I know that she was upset about all this. I just hope that she’s okay after all of this. I have a feeling that the four of us are going to have to be a united front in all of this, and right now it looks like Ron’s going to be a problem. 

* * *

 

Early next morning a frantic Hermione wakes me up. She’s totally freaking out about how Harry will feel when he goes down to the Great Hall for breakfast. My stomach turns just at the thought of having to face all those people after such a public event as the one that happened last night.

“Let’s just get him some breakfast then. That way he can avoid the crowds for a little while longer. I know that I’d hate it if I were in his shoes.” I say with a shudder. So after quickly dressing Hermione and I hurried down to the Great Hall to get some breakfast us, and some for Harry.

“I still can’t believe that really happened last night. I mean— we’ve been with Harry almost constantly so there is no way that he could have done that, so how did his name get in the goblet?” Hermione puzzles chewing furiously on a piece of toast. I shrug my shoulders and push around my porridge.

Ron is a few seats down but we’re ignoring him at the moments since he’s being a right awful git to practically everyone at the moment.

“Who knows? All that really matters is that he’s in the tournament now for better or for worse. What we should really be worrying about is keeping him alive to see next year.” I say grimly. Hermione blanches at the thought.

Hermione grabs a few pieces of toast, and I manage to transfigure a napkin into a cup so that I can bring him some pumpkin juice as well, and we start back up the stairs to the tower. We’re barely back at the portrait when it swings open, and Harry comes barreling out like he’s being chased by Fluffy the hellhound back in first year.

“Hello,” Hermione says, holding up a stack of toast, which she is carrying in a napkin. “We brought you this. . . . Want to go for a walk?”

“Good idea,” says Harry gratefully.

We go downstairs, cross the entrance hall quickly without looking in at the Great Hall, and are soon striding across the lawn towards the lake, where the Durmstrang ship is moored, reflected blackly in the water. It is a chilly morning, and we keep moving, Harry munching his toast, as he tells Hermione and me exactly what had happened after he had left the Gryffindor table the night before. To his immense relief, Hermione and I accept his story without question.

“Well, of course I knew you hadn’t entered yourself,” she says when he’s finished telling us about the scene in the chamber off the Hall. “The look on your face when Dumbledore read out your name! But the question is, who did put it in? Because Moody’s right, Harry . . . I don’t think any student could have done it . . . they’d never be able to fool the goblet, or get over Dumbledore’s —”

“Have you seen Ron?” Harry interrupts. Hermione hesitates and I scoff.

“Erm . . . yes . . . he was at breakfast,” she says.

“Does he still think I entered myself?”

“Well . . . no, I don’t think so . . . not really,” says Hermione awkwardly.

“What’s that supposed to mean, ‘not really’?”

“Oh Harry, isn’t it obvious?” I say despairingly. “He’s jealous!”

“Jealous?” Harry says incredulously. “Jealous of what? He wants to make a prat of himself in front of the whole school, does he?”

“Look,” says Hermione patiently, “it’s always you who gets all the attention, you know it is. I know it’s not your fault,” she adds quickly, seeing Harry open his mouth furiously. “I know you don’t ask for it . . . but — well — you know, Ron’s got all those brothers to compete against at home, and you’re his best friend, and you’re really famous — he’s always shunted to one side whenever people see you, and he puts up with it, and he never mentions it, but I suppose this is just one time too many. . . .”

I understand where Ron’s coming from but this is really not the time to have this sort of a breakdown. I just hope that this one will end quickly for I hate being put in the middle of these fights between my friends.

“Great,” says Harry bitterly. “Really great. Tell him from me I’ll swap any time he wants. Tell him from me he’s welcome to it. . . . People gawping at my forehead everywhere I go. . . .”

“I’m not telling him anything,” Hermione says shortly. “Tell him yourself. It’s the only way to sort this out.”

“Ditto for me as well Harry. I’m not an owl and I never want to learn what its like to be one.” I tell him seriously.

“I’m not running around after him trying to make him grow up!” Harry says, so loudly that several owls in a nearby tree take flight in alarm. “Maybe he’ll believe I’m not enjoying myself once I’ve got my neck broken or —”

I wince. “That’s not funny,” says Hermione quietly. “That’s not funny at all.” She looks extremely anxious. “Harry, I’ve been thinking — you know what we’ve got to do, don’t you? Straight away, the moment we get back to the castle?”

“Yeah, give Ron a good kick up the —”

“Write to Sirius. You’ve got to tell him what’s happened. He asked you to keep him posted on everything that’s going on at Hogwarts. . . . It’s almost as if he expected something like this to happen. I brought some parchment and a quill out with me —”

“Come off it,” says Harry, looking around to check that we can’t be overheard, but the grounds are quite deserted. “He came back to the country just because my scar twinged. He’ll probably come bursting right into the castle if I tell him someone’s entered me in the Triwizard Tournament —”

“He’d want you to tell him,” says Hermione sternly. “He’s going to find out anyway —”

“How?”

“Harry, this isn’t going to be kept quiet,” I say exasperated. “This tournament’s famous, and you’re famous. I’ll be really surprised if there isn’t anything in the Daily Prophet about you competing. . . . You’re already in half the books about You-Know-Who, you know . . . and Sirius would rather hear it from you, I know he would.”

“Okay, okay, I’ll write to him,” says Harry, throwing his last piece of toast into the lake. We stand and watch it floating there for a moment, before a large tentacle rises out of the water and scoops it beneath the surface. Then we return to the castle.

“Whose owl am I going to use?” Harry asks as they climb the stairs. “He told me not to use Hedwig again.”

“You can borrow Dionysus. He’s a good owl and has good stamina. Besides it’s not like I really use him all that much. Molly’s really the only person who sends me letters.” I tell him.

Hermione and I wait while harry scrawls out a letter to Sirius. When he’s done, I whistle three short notes, and Dionysus swoops down with Hedwig by her side. Di lands on my shoulder and nips at my ear playfully. I grin softly at my owl. I really have missed spending time with him since I’ve gotten back to school. Looking between him and Hedwig though, I’d say that he’s not lacking for company.

Harry shoos Hedwig away and I attach his letter to Sirius on Di’s foot. With a soft hoot Dionysus takes off into the air and I shake my head with a sigh. I have a feeling that this is going to be a really long week. 

* * *

 

Monday turns out to not be so good for Harry. The whole school seems to be going along the line of the Gryffindors with thinking that Harry somehow managed to get his name into the goblet. Unlike the rest of our house though, the rest are not as impressed with this deed.

The Hufflepuffs, who are usually on excellent terms with the Gryffindors, have turned remarkably cold towards the whole lot of us. One Herbology lesson is enough to demonstrate this. It is plain that the Hufflepuffs feel that Harry has stolen their champion’s glory; a feeling exacerbated, perhaps, by the fact that Hufflepuff House very rarely gets any glory, and that Cedric is one of the few who have ever given them any, having beaten Gryffindor once at Quidditch.

This class is one that I share with Ariana and the silence was beginning to kill me since we’re partnered together. She’s never this silent with me. “W-we’re still friends correct?” I ask hesitantly chancing a look at the blond Hufflepuff beside me. Ariana Dumbledore looks up Bouncing bulb in front of her to look at me.

“What would make you ask that?” She questions softly. I bite my lip and push my bulb deep down into the soil of the pot in front of me.

“You usually talk to me… even when I don’t really want to. So— yeah I’m wondering if we’re still friends especially since everyone in your house now hates mine.” I explain. Ariana turns her attention back to her pot for a second before sighing.

“I want you to listen carefully Pendragon for I’m only going to say this once. I don’t care what the rest of my house thinks. You’re my friend Jamie and have been so long before I’ve ever been a Hufflepuff. You mean more to me then stupid house rivalries, and I know personally that Harry couldn’t have put his name into the goblet himself. So really this all is quite stupid and childish.” She says.

I raise my eyebrow at her whole big speech. “Does that put your worries to rest?” She asks. I shift and pat down the soil on my pot.

“Yeah… that’s good ‘cause I happen to kinda like having you as a friend.” I say grabbing another bouncing bulb. Ariana chuckles from beside me.

“I kinda like you as a friend too Jamie.” She tells me, and right there a lot of my stress and worry leaves knowing that at least there’s someone else who’s on our side (and it doesn’t hurt to still have Ariana as well).

At least I’m not poor Hermione. Ron isn’t talking to Harry. So Hermione sits between them, making very forced conversation, but though both answer her normally, they avoid making eye contact with each other.

Care of Magical Creatures isn’t going to be any better since we have it with the Slytherins.

Predictably, Malfoy arrives at Hagrid’s cabin with his familiar sneer firmly in place. “Ah, look, boys, it’s the champion,” he says to Crabbe and Goyle the moment he gets within earshot of Harry. “Got your autograph books? Better get a signature now, because I doubt he’s going to be around much longer. . . . Half the Triwizard champions have died . . . how long d’you reckon you’re going to last, Potter? Ten minutes into the first task’s my bet.”

Crabbe and Goyle guffaw sycophantically, but Malfoy has to stop there, because Hagrid emerges from the back of his cabin balancing a teetering tower of crates, each containing a very large Blast-Ended Skrewt. To the class’s horror, Hagrid proceeds to explain that the reason the skrewts have been killing one another is an excess of pent-up energy, and that the solution will be for each student to fix a leash on a skrewt and take it for a short walk. The only good thing about this plan is that it distracts Malfoy completely and saves him (unfortunately) from having my fist in his face.

“Take this thing for a walk?” he repeats in disgust, staring into one of the boxes. “And where exactly are we supposed to fix the leash? Around the sting, the blasting end, or the sucker?”

“Roun’ the middle,” says Hagrid, demonstrating. “Er — yeh might want ter put on yer dragon-hide gloves, jus’ as an extra precaution, like. Harry — you come here an’ help me with this big one. . . .”

As I pill on my gloves I eye Hagrid and Harry carefully. I’m worried about Harry truthfully and from the look on Hermione’s face she is as well. We both wrestle with two of our own skrewts.

The skrewts are now over three feet long, and extremely powerful. No longer shell-less and colorless, they have developed a kind of thick, grayish, shiny armor. They look like a cross between giant scorpions and elongated crabs — but still without recognizable heads or eyes. They have become immensely strong and very hard to control.

“Okay stinky it’s just you and me now. So lets go over some ground rules. You’re allowed to blow up only if Malfoy is near so that we can accidentally set his robes on fire. Deal?” I whisper to the creature. I get a small snorting sound in return so that’s good enough for me.

With a small smirk I get up and start walking the creature like a dog.

* * *

The next few days are hard on Harry. He didn’t have Ron by his side and no matter how much Hermione and I are there for him its not the same. Harry had hoped that the Ravenclaws would be on his side but that’s not the case. Most Ravenclaws seem to think that he had been desperate to earn himself a bit more fame by tricking the goblet into accepting his name.

Then there was the fact that Cedric looks the part of a champion so much more than he does. Exceptionally handsome, with his straight nose, dark hair, and gray eyes, it is hard to say who is receiving more admiration these days, Cedric or Viktor Krum. I actually see the same sixth-year girls who had been so keen to get Krum’s autograph begging Cedric to sign their school bags one lunchtime.

This was getting to be out of control. So of course that leads me to cornering my brother in the hallway between passing periods. He had seen me coming and judging from the look on his face he knows what I want to talk about. He waves his friends on ahead of him, and when they pass me I’m greeted by scowls.

I roll my eyes at them and come to a stop in front of my brother. “Hey Jamie.” He says. I glare at him not even bothering with the small talk.

“Are you seriously thinking that Harry actually put his name in the goblet? Even Ariana knows that he couldn’t have.” I say cutting to the chase. Luka sighs and shakes his head tiredly at me.

“I’m not daft Jamie of course I know that. Anyone with half a brain would be able to tell that but my housemates are just getting caught up in the moment that’s all. Look I’ll try talking to some of them later but Harry’s just going to have to hold on. There’s really not all that much that we can do.” Luka says.

I let out a shaky breath and nod my head reluctantly. “Yeah I know… it just sucks is all.” I tell him.

“Well you guys just hang in there, besides its just one year. Anything can happen in it.” He says turning and starting down the hall to his next class. After a second I look and the time and hurry off to my class as well.

Professor Trelawney is predicting Harry’s death with even more certainty than usual, and he does so badly at Summoning Charms in Professor Flitwick’s class that he is given extra homework — the only person to get any, apart from Neville.

“It’s really not that difficult, Harry,” Hermione tries to reassure him as we leave Flitwick’s class — Hermione and I had been making objects zoom across the room to us all lesson, as though we were some sort of weird magnet for board dusters, wastepaper baskets, and lunascopes. “You just weren’t concentrating properly —”

“I know you have a lot on your mind right now its okay to struggle a little.” I reassure him thinking of how I was last year when I was having trouble with my friends.

“Wonder why that was,” says Harry darkly as Cedric Diggory walks past, surrounded by a large group of simpering girls, all of whom look at Harry as though he is a particularly large Blast-Ended Skrewt. “Still — never mind, eh? Double Potions to look forward to this afternoon. . . .”

Double Potions is always a horrible experience, but these days it is nothing short of torture. Being shut in a dungeon for an hour and a half with Snape and the Slytherins, all of whom seem determined to punish Harry as much as possible for daring to become school champion, is about the most unpleasant thing I can imagine. Harry has already struggled through one Friday’s worth, with Hermione and me sitting next to him intoning “ignore them, ignore them, ignore them” under her breath, and I can’t see why today should be any better.

I really wish that Ron would hurry up and get his head out of his arse and start being a friend to Harry again for this is ridiculous.

When he and Hermione, and I arrive at Snape’s dungeon after lunch, we find the Slytherins waiting outside, each and every one of them wearing a large badge on the front of his or her robes. For one wild moment I think they are S.P.E.W. badges — then I see that they all bear the same message, in luminous red letters that burn brightly in the dimly lit underground passage:

Support Cedric Diggory— The Real Hogwarts Champion!

 

“Like them, Potter?” says Malfoy loudly as Harry approaches. “And this isn’t all they do — look!”

He presses his badge into his chest, and the message upon it vanishes, to be replaced by another one, which glows green:

Potter Stinks!

 

The Slytherins howl with laughter. Each of them press their badges too, until the message POTTER STINKS is shining brightly all around Harry. This is not going to be good and this whole situation is going too far.

“Oh very funny,” Hermione says sarcastically to Pansy Parkinson and her gang of Slytherin girls, who are laughing harder than anyone, “really witty.”

“Actually Hermione I rather think that’s around their level of intelligence— that of a troll I mean.” I quip. All the girls stop laughing and glare at me threateningly.

Ron is standing against the wall with Dean and Seamus. He isn’t laughing, but he isn’t sticking up for Harry either. I’m going to beat some sense into him sooner or later.

“Want one, Granger?” says Malfoy, holding out a badge to Hermione. “I’ve got loads. But don’t touch my hand, now. I’ve just washed it, you see; don’t want a Mudblood sliming it up.”

Oh that’s it he’s dead. Harry reaches for his wand before me though. People all around us scrambled out of the way, backing down the corridor.

“Harry!” Hermione says warningly.

“Go on, then, Potter,” Malfoy says quietly, drawing out his own wand. “Moody’s not here to look after you now — do it, if you’ve got the guts —”

For a split second, they look into each other’s eyes, then, at exactly the same time, both act.

“Furnunculus!” Harry yells.

“Densaugeo!” screams Malfoy.

Jets of light shoot from both wands, hit each other in midair, and ricochet off at angles — Harry’s hits Goyle in the face, and Malfoy’s hits Hermione. Goyle bellows and puts his hands to his nose, where great ugly boils are springing up — Hermione, whimpering in panic, is clutching her mouth.

“Hermione!” Ron hurries forward to see what is wrong with her; I turn and see Ron dragging Hermione’s hand away from her face. It isn’t a pretty sight. Hermione’s front teeth — already larger than average — are now growing at an alarming rate; she is looking more and more like a beaver as her teeth elongate, past her bottom lip, towards her chin — panic-stricken, she feels them and lets out a terrified cry.

I quickly rush forward unclasping my cloak and holding it over the bottom part of her face so no one can see. That’s the least that I can do for my friend. I attempt to calm her down as well. “And what is all this noise about?” says a soft, deadly voice.

Snape has arrived. The Slytherins clamor to give their explanations; Snape points a long yellow finger at Malfoy and says, “Explain.”

“Potter attacked me, sir —”

“We attacked each other at the same time!” Harry shouts.

“— and he hit Goyle — look —” Snape examins Goyle, whose face now resembles something that would have been at home in a book on poisonous fungi. I think that its actually an improvement from the original look.

“Hospital wing, Goyle,” Snape says calmly.

“Malfoy got Hermione!” Ron says. “Look!” He forces Hermione to show Snape her teeth they’re now going past her collar and I will kill Ron for this later. Pansy Parkinson and the other Slytherin girls are doubled up with silent giggles, pointing at Hermione from behind Snape’s back. Ron will come just as soon as I dispose of their bodies.

Snape looks coldly at Hermione, then says, “I see no difference.” Hermione lets out a whimper; her eyes fill with tears, she turns on her heel and runs, all the way up the corridor and out of sight.

It is lucky, perhaps, that both Harry and Ron start shouting at Snape at the same time; lucky their voices echo so much in the stone corridor, for in the confused din, it is impossible for him to hear exactly what they are calling him. He gets the gist, however.

“Let’s see,” he says, in his silkiest voice. “Fifty points from Gryffindor and a detention each for Potter and Weasley. Now get inside, or it’ll be a week’s worth of detentions.”

I glare at Professor Snape and refuse to move from my spot holding my cloak in my hand. “Excuse me _professor_ but I am feeling ill and shall be going to the hospital wing.” I say not even bothering to wait to hear if he’s actually going to let me leave.

I know that Madame Pomfrey would never let me stay there just to be there for Hermione so unfortunately I can’t see her, but I couldn’t stay another second in that class for I feel like I’m going to explode any second here. Snape and Malfoy just make me so mad. One is a smarmy weasel who should be taught a lesson and the other is a sorry excuse for a teacher.

So to cool down, I sneak up to Gryffindor tower and into the common room. I’m not alone as I had hoped that I would be though. Fred and George are there at one of the table hunched over something. Curiosity getting the better of me I wander over to the pair.

George looks up first. “Oi Jame, aren’t you supposed to be in class?” He asks me not caring about the class but about me.

“Snape’s a git and there was no way that I’d be able to sit through an entire class period with him without saying or doing something that I’d regret.” I say simply.

Fred nods his head knowingly. “We’ve had those days as well. I know just the thing to make you feel better though Lady Jamie.” He says with a wicked grin.

I feel a smile slowly slip onto my face as well. “Oh, and what would that happen to be?” I question.

“Planning a prank. Not just any old prank though, one that will be able to get the stuck up French kids and the dunderheads of the North as well.” George pitches. I blink at them for a second before letting my own wicked grin through.

“What are we waiting for boys? We’ve got some chaos to plan!” I exclaim and lean over the papers that they have already set up at the table. This is just what I need to blow off some steam. If only this situation could be solved before I’m unable to control my temper anymore. One can hope I guess.


	16. The Hungarian Horntail

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything you recognize is J.K. Rowling's. Except Jamie, Luka, and Ariana.

Chapter 16-The Hungarian Horntail

 

So I think that its pretty safe to say that school has not been going the greatest for Harry. Life has became even worse for Harry within the confines of the castle, for Rita Skeeter has published her piece about the Triwizard Tournament, and it has turned out to be not so much a report on the tournament as a highly colored life story of Harry. Much of the front page had been given over to a picture of Harry; the article (continuing on pages two, six, and seven) had been all about Harry, the names of the Beauxbatons and Durmstrang champions (misspelled) are squashed into the last line of the article, and Cedric wasn’t even mentioned at all.

The article appeared ten days ago, and Harry still looks sick every time he sees it. Rita Skeeter has reported him saying an awful lot of things that he can’t remember ever saying in his life, let alone in that broom cupboard. I of course feel bad for Harry since this article hasn’t won him any popularity what so ever. Here’s an excerpt:

I suppose I get my strength from my parents. I know they’d be very proud of me if they could see me now. . . . Yes, sometimes at night I still cry about them, I’m not ashamed to admit it. . . . I know nothing will hurt me during the tournament, because they’re watching over me. . . .

Harry has at last found love at Hogwarts. His close friend, Colin Creevey, says that Harry is rarely seen out of the company of one Hermione Granger, a stunningly pretty Muggle-born girl who, like Harry, is one of the top students in the school.

 

From the moment the article appeared, Harry has had to endure people — Slytherins, mainly — quoting it at him as he passes and making sneering comments. That pretty much means that I’ve been shouting myself hoarse in defense of my friend here.

“Want a hanky, Potter, in case you start crying in Transfiguration?”

“Since when have you been one of the top students in the school, Potter? Or is this a school you and Longbottom have set up together?”

“Hey — Harry!”

“Yeah, that’s right!” Harry shouts as he wheels around in the corridor, having had just about enough. “I’ve just been crying my eyes out over my dead mum, and I’m just off to do a bit more. . . .”

“No — it was just — you dropped your quill.” It is Cho. Color rises to his face.

“Oh — right — sorry,” he mutters, taking the quill back.

“Er . . . good luck on Tuesday,” she says. “I really hope you do well.” Which leaves Harry feeling extremely stupid.

“You really have no when talking to women do you?” I say chuckling lightly under my breath.

“I talk to you don’t I?” Harry grumbles sullenly. I roll my eyes at that.

“But I’m your friend Harry so its different. There’s no expectations there, for no matter how much of an ass you inevitably make of yourself I’ll find fit to eventually forgive you and tease you remorsefully about it until I so choose to stop.” I inform him smartly.

Harry eyes me then shakes his head. “Remind me why I am friends with you exactly?” Harry says turning around the corner to our class.

“Cause I’m pushy and wouldn’t take no for an answer.” I say grinning. Harry looks contemplatively at me.

“I dunno I seem to remember a small terrified little girl wanting someone to be her friend just as badly as I did.” He smirks. I glare at him.

“You were tiny as well smart ass.” I shoot back. With an offended look class starts.

Hermione has come in for her fair share of unpleasantness too, but she hasn’t yet started yelling at innocent bystanders; in fact, I am full of admiration for the way she is handling the situation.

“Stunningly pretty? Her?” Pansy Parkinson shrieks the first time she comes face-to-face with Hermione after Rita’s article has appeared. “What was she judging against — a chipmunk?”

“Ignore it,” Hermione says in a dignified voice, holding her head in the air and stalking past the sniggering Slytherin girls as though she can’t hear them. “Just ignore it, guys.”

While Hermione might have the patience and the kindness of a saint, I do not. “No Pansy she just had to compare Hermione to your ugly mug, and even a blind bat with no taste would have still picked her over you.” I retort grinning the whole time. I watch in satisfaction as Pansy’s pug like face changes three different colors before I decide to leave.

But Harry can’t ignore it either. Ron hasn’t spoken to him at all since he told Harry about Snape’s detentions. I had half hoped they would make things up during the two hours they were forced to pickle rats’ brains in Snape’s dungeon, but that had been the day Rita’s article appeared, which seems to have confirmed Ron’s belief that Harry is really enjoying all the attention.

Hermione is furious with the pair of them (so am I); she goes from one to the other, trying to force them to talk to each other, but Harry is adamant: He will talk to Ron again only if Ron admits that Harry didn’t put his name in the Goblet of Fire and apologizes for calling him a liar.

So pretty much we will all be friends again when one or both of them regain their common sense, which could pretty much mean never. “I didn’t start this,” Harry says stubbornly. “It’s his problem.”

“You miss him!” Hermione says impatiently. “And I know he misses you —”

“Miss him?” says Harry. “I don’t miss him. . . . ”

Here’s the whole denial bit in case you haven’t noticed. We’ve been spending a lot more time in the library since Ron doesn’t hang out with us all anymore. He was always the strongest in his refusal to go to the library.

Harry still hasn’t mastered Summoning Charms, he seems to have developed something of a block about them, and Hermione insists that learning the theory will help. I try to help but Hermione says that since I’m a natural I don’t know anything about theory and thusly hopeless. We consequently spend a lot of time poring over books during our lunchtimes. This sucks since I absolutely hate being in the library this much. As I’ve said plenty of times, I’m not Luka.

Though he has been scarily shocked to run into me here so many times in the past few days. Viktor Krum is in the library an awful lot too, and I wonder what he is up to. Is he studying, or is he looking for things to help him through the first task? Hermione often complains about Krum being there — not that he’s ever bothered us — but because groups of giggling girls often turn up to spy on him from behind bookshelves, and Hermione finds the noise distracting.

I just happen to find the fan girls annoying. “He’s not even good-looking!” she mutters angrily (agreed!), glaring at Krum’s sharp profile. “They only like him because he’s famous! They wouldn’t look twice at him if he couldn’t do that Wonky-Faint thing —”

“Wronski Feint,” says Harry, through gritted teeth. I can tell that all the time spent with just the two of us for company is beginning to grate on him. I don’t really blame him since he’s becoming annoying to be around all the time with his constant bitterness and brooding moods.

* * *

 

On the Saturday before the first task, all students in the third year and above are permitted to visit the village of Hogsmeade. Hermione tells Harry that it will do him good to get away from the castle for a bit, and Harry doesn’t need much persuasion. Personally I’m glad to get away as well for I’m beginning to get a little stir crazy spending the majority of my time with just Hermione and Harry.

“What about Ron, though?” Harry asks. “Don’t you want to go with him?”

“Oh . . . well . . .” Hermione goes slightly pink. “I thought we might meet up with him in the Three Broomsticks. . . .”

“No,” says Harry flatly.

“Oh Harry, this is so stupid —”

“I’ll come, but I’m not meeting Ron, and I’m wearing my Invisibility Cloak.”

“Well aren’t you just the charmer. I don’t know why I don’t want to do more nice things for you Harry. It really just stumps me.” I say drolly beginning to get irritated with my friend. If this is how he’s going to act then I’m not so sure that I want to be around him any more.

“Oh all right then . . .” Hermione snaps, “but I hate talking to you in that Cloak, I never know if I’m looking at you or not.”

So Harry puts on his Invisibility Cloak in the dormitory, goes back downstairs, and together Harry, Hermione, and I set off for Hogsmeade. Hermione and I chat about the goings on with our friends while walking down to Hogsmeade ignoring Harry and attempting to watch our step so that we don’t run into him and trip over him.

“People keep looking at us now,” says Hermione grumpily as we come out of Honeydukes Sweetshop later, eating large cream-filled chocolates. “They think Jamie and I are crazy talking to someone who doesn’t exist since we’re not addressing each other.”

“Don’t move your lips so much then.” Harry responds. I grit my teeth in annoyance at him.

“You’re lucky that I can’t see you Potter.” I growl softly.

“Come on, please just take off your Cloak for a bit, no one’s going to bother you here.” Hermione says attempting to persuade Harry into acting like a normal person.

“Oh yeah?” says Harry. “Look behind you.”

Rita Skeeter and her photographer friend have just emerged from the Three Broomsticks pub. Talking in low voices, they pass right by Hermione and me without looking at us. When they are gone, Harry says, “She’s staying in the village. I bet she’s coming to watch the first task.”

“Too bad she couldn’t get a picture of the happy couple.” I say jokingly, only to get smacked by one visible and one invisible hand.

“Ow— okay, still too early to make jokes!” I cry puffing out my lower lip.

“She’s gone,” I say. “Why don’t we go and have a butterbeer in the Three Broomsticks, it’s a bit cold, isn’t it? You don’t have to talk to Ron!” I add irritably, correctly interpreting Harry’s silence. Hermione rolls her eyes at the whole situation.

The Three Broomsticks is packed, mainly with Hogwarts students enjoying their free afternoon, but also with a variety of magical people I rarely see anywhere else. I suppose that as Hogsmeade is the only all-wizard village in Britain, it is a bit of a haven for creatures like hags, who are not as adept as wizards at disguising themselves.

As Hermione goes to buy drinks I navigate to an open table assuming that Harry is following me though I feel stupid walking slower in attempt to help him keep up with me. I spot Ron, who is sitting with Fred, George, Lee Jordan, and surprisingly Luka. It warms my heart to see my brother actually hanging out with the Weasley boys here and not back at the Burrow. They’re laughing about something and I wish that I could join them.

“Jamie!” Fred cries spying me walking to the empty table alone. “Dear Lady Jamie come and join us! There is plenty of space and good drink to go around!” I smile at them seeing the encouraging nods from the rest.

“I’m sorry boys but Hermione and I are having a girls day. I’d invite you to join us but I’m afraid that you lot don’t meet the current etiquette requirement in which to join us.” I reply with a grin. The boys ooh and guffaw at me. Fred and George are even pretending to cry.

I finally make it over to the table and sit down and I assume that Harry has sat down with me as well. Hermione joins us a moment later and slips Harry a butterbeer under his Cloak.

“This is weird trying to hold a conversation with an invisible person,” she mutters. “Lucky I brought something for us to do.”

And she pulls out a notebook in which she has been keeping a record of S.P.E.W. members. I see Harry, Ron’s, and my names at the top of the very short list. “Oh no Hermione not that. I actually want to relax for a little while.” I whine not caring if I sound childish.

Hermione chooses to ignore me like usual. I swear sometimes I feel like I’m the one who’s invisible when it comes to my friends. “You know, maybe I should try and get some of the villagers involved in S.P.E.W.,” Hermione says thoughtfully, looking around the pub. I let my head drop to the table and slowly start to bang it. Why won’t she stop? Please make her stop!

“Yeah, right,” says Harry. “Hermione, when are you going to give up on this spew stuff?”

“When house-elves have decent wages and working conditions!” she hisses back.  “You know, I’m starting to think it’s time for more direct action. I wonder how you get into the school kitchens?”

“No idea, ask Fred and George,” says Harry. I stiffen at the mention of the kitchen. I know the way in, and I’m glad that my friends haven’t figured that out yet. A girl has to have some secrets to herself.

I look around at all the people in the pub. All of them look cheerful and relaxed. Ernie Macmillan and Hannah Abbott are swapping Chocolate Frog cards at a nearby table, both of them sporting Support Cedric Diggory! badges on their cloaks. Ariana sits with them sipping a butterbeer and I’m happy that she has no alignment herself. She catches my gaze and grins at me making a funny faces and raising her glass to me.

Right over by the door I see Cho and a large group of her Ravenclaw friends. She isn’t wearing a Cedric badge though. I have a feeling that that makes Harry at least somewhat happy.

“Look, it’s Hagrid!” says Hermione.

The back of Hagrid’s enormous shaggy head — he has mercifully abandoned his bunches — emerges over the crowd. I wonder why I didn’t spott him at once, as Hagrid is so large, but standing up carefully, I see that Hagrid has been leaning low, talking to Professor Moody. Well there’s a disconcerting pairing if I’ve ever seen one.

Hagrid has his usual enormous tankard in front of him, but Moody is drinking from his hip flask. Madam Rosmerta, the pretty landlady, doesn’t seem to think much of this; she is looking askance at Moody as she collects glasses from tables around them. Perhaps she thinks it is an insult to her mulled mead, but I know better. Moody told us all during our last Defense Against the Dark Arts lesson that he prefers to prepare his own food and drink at all times, as it is so easy for Dark wizards to poison an unattended cup.

He’s the poster child for a paranoid wizard I’ll tell you. As I watch, I see Hagrid and Moody get up to leave. Moody, pauses, his magical eye on the corner where we are sitting. He taps Hagrid in the small of the back (being unable to reach his shoulder), mutters something to him, and then the pair of them make their way back across the pub towards our table.

“All right, Hermione, Jamie?” says Hagrid loudly.

“Hello,” says Hermione, smiling back.

“What’s up?” I ask curiously. Moody limps around the table and bends down; I think he is reading the S.P.E.W. notebook, until he mutters, “Nice Cloak, Potter.”

Whoa so his eye can see through the invisibility cloak. I have to admit that’s really cool. Hagrid leans down as well and says something softly to the space where Harry is.

“Good to see you Jamie, Hermione.” Hagrid bids us goodbye and the two of them leave our table.

“Why does Hagrid want me to meet him at midnight?” Harry says, very surprised. I raise my eyebrows at that. Hagird hardly ever asks us to do things like that.

“Does he?” says Hermione, looking startled. “I wonder what he’s up to? I don’t know whether you should go, Harry. . . .” She looks nervously around and hisses, “It might make you late for Sirius.”

It is true that going down to Hagrid’s at midnight would mean cutting his meeting with Sirius very fine indeed; Hermione suggests sending Hedwig down to Hagrid’s to tell him he can’t go — always assuming she will consent to take the note, of course — Harry, however, thinks it better just to be quick at whatever Hagrid wants him for. He is very curious to know what this might be; Hagrid has never asked Harry to visit him so late at night.

“I’m coming with you of course. Its not safe to be wandering around at night alone even if its only to Hagrid’s or do we have to revisit every previous year here at Hogwarts.” I say glaring at the space where I’m sure that Harry’s at.

“Fine!” Harry hisses back.

At half past eleven I creep down the steps to the common room waiting for Harry to come so that we can go see Hagrid. I feel a tug on my sleeve, and suddenly a cloak is thrown over me and Harry comes into sight. “Ready?” He asks me.

“As I’ll ever be.” I say. Quite a few people are still in there. The Creevey brothers have managed to get hold of a stack of Support Cedric Diggory! badges and are trying to bewitch them to make them say Support Harry Potter! instead. So far, however, all they have managed to do is get the badges stuck on POTTER STINKS.  We creep past them to the portrait hole and wait for a minute or so, keeping an eye on his watch. Then Hermione opens the Fat Lady for us from outside as we planned. We slip past her with a whispered “Thanks!” and set off through the castle.

The grounds are very dark. Harry and I walk down the lawn towards the lights shining in Hagrid’s cabin. The inside of the enormous Beauxbatons carriage is also lit up; we can hear Madame Maxime talking inside it as we knock on Hagrid’s front door.

“You there, Harry?” Hagrid whispers, opening the door and looking around.

“Yeah, Jamie too,” says Harry, slipping inside the cabin and pulling the Cloak down off our heads. “What’s up?”

“Got summat ter show yeh,” says Hagrid. There is an air of enormous excitement about Hagrid. He is wearing a flower that resembles an oversized artichoke in his buttonhole. It looks as though he has abandoned the use of axle grease, but he has certainly attempted to comb his hair — I can see the comb’s broken teeth tangled in it.

“What’re you showing us?” I say warily, wondering if the skrewts have laid eggs, or Hagrid has managed to buy another giant three-headed dog off a stranger in a pub.

“Come with me, keep quiet, an’ keep yerself covered with that Cloak,” says Hagrid. “We won’ take Fang, he won’ like it. . . .”

“Listen, Hagrid, I can’t stay long. . . . I’ve got to be back up at the castle by one o’clock —” Harry starts.

But Hagrid isn’t listening; he is opening the cabin door and striding off into the night. Harry and I hurry to follow and find, to my great surprise, that Hagrid is leading us to the Beauxbatons carriage.

“Hagrid, what — ?” I say.

“Shhh!” says Hagrid, and he knocks three times on the door bearing the crossed golden wands.

Madame Maxime opens it. She is wearing a silk shawl wrapped around her massive shoulders. She smiles when she sees Hagrid.

“Ah, ’Agrid . . . it is time?”

“Bong-sewer,” says Hagrid, beaming at her, and holding out a hand to help her down the golden steps.

“Bong-sewer?” I whisper to Harry confusedly. I swear sometimes I don’t understand Hagrid at all.

Madame Maxime closes the door behind her, Hagrid offers her his arm, and they set off around the edge of the paddock containing Madame Maxime’s giant winged horses, with Harry and me, totally bewildered, running to keep up with them. Had Hagrid wanted to show us Madame Maxime? We can see her any old time we want . . . she isn’t exactly hard to miss. . . .

But it seems that Madame Maxime is in for the same treat as us, because after a while she says playfully, “Wair is it you are taking me, ’Agrid?”

“Yeh’ll enjoy this,” says Hagrid gruffly, “worth seein’, trust me. On’y — don’ go tellin’ anyone I showed yeh, right? Yeh’re not s’posed ter know.”

“Of course not,” says Madame Maxime, fluttering her long black eyelashes. Oh man I’m out on Hagrid date with him and Madame Maxime, and Harry is with me no less! Well this is certainly awkward. From the way Harry quietly clears his throat I can tell that he feels the same.

And still we walk, Harry is getting more and more irritated as we jogged along in their wake, checking his watch every now and then. Hagrid has some harebrained scheme in hand, which might make him miss Sirius. If we don’t get there soon, Harry tells me that he’s going to turn around, go straight back to the castle, and leave Hagrid to enjoy his moonlit stroll with Madame Maxime. . . .

But then — when we have walked so far around the perimeter of the forest that the castle and the lake are out of sight — I hear something. Men are shouting up ahead . . . then comes a deafening, earsplitting roar. . . .

Hagrid leads Madame Maxime around a clump of trees and comes to a halt. Harry and I hurry up alongside them — for a split second, I think I am seeing bonfires, and men darting around them — and then my mouth falls open.

Dragons. Oh boy.

Four fully grown, enormous, vicious-looking dragons are rearing onto their hind legs inside an enclosure fenced with thick planks of wood, roaring and snorting — torrents of fire are shooting into the dark sky from their open, fanged mouths, fifty feet above the ground on their outstretched necks. There is a silvery-blue one with long, pointed horns, snapping and snarling at the wizards on the ground; a smooth-scaled green one, which is writhing and stamping with all its might; a red one with an odd fringe of fine gold spikes around its face, which is shooting mushroom-shaped fire clouds into the air; and a gigantic black one, more lizard-like than the others, which is nearest to us.

At least thirty wizards, seven or eight to each dragon, are attempting to control them, pulling on the chains connected to heavy leather straps around their necks and legs. Mesmerized, I look up, high above me, and see the eyes of the black dragon, with vertical pupils like a cat’s, bulging with either fear or rage, I can’t tell which. . . . It is making a horrible noise, a yowling, screeching scream. . . .

“Keep back there, Hagrid!” yells a wizard near the fence, straining on the chain he is holding. “They can shoot fire at a range of twenty feet, you know! I’ve seen this Horntail do forty!”

“Is’n’ it beautiful?” says Hagrid softly. Hagrid seriously needs to get his head checked out sometime.

“It’s no good!” yells another wizard. “Stunning Spells, on the count of three!” I have a feeling that we’re about to become a little crispier than normal. I had enough of dragons after the whole Norbert fiasco in second year.

I see each of the dragon keepers pull out his wand. I grab Harry’s hand and grip it tightly. He squeezes back in either reassurance or his own fright.

“Stupefy!” they shout in unison, and the Stunning Spells shoot into the darkness like fiery rockets, bursting in showers of stars on the dragons’ scaly hides —

I watch the dragon nearest to us teeter dangerously on its back legs; its jaws stretched wide in a silent howl; its nostrils are suddenly devoid of flame, though still smoking — then, very slowly, it falls. Several tons of sinewy, scaly-black dragon hit the ground with a thud that I swear make the trees behind us quake.

The dragon keepers lower their wands and walk forward to their fallen charges, each of which is the size of a small hill. They hurry to tighten the chains and fasten them securely to iron pegs, which they force deep into the ground with their wands.

“Wan’ a closer look?” Hagrid asks Madame Maxime excitedly. The pair of them move right up to the fence, and Harry and I follow. The wizard who warned Hagrid not to come any closer turns, and I realize who it is: Charlie Weasley.

“All right, Hagrid?” he pants, coming over to talk. “They should be okay now — we put them out with a Sleeping Draught on the way here, thought it might be better for them to wake up in the dark and the quiet — but, like you saw, they weren’t happy, not happy at all —” Yeah I could tell. Never make a dragon mad, that’s definitely crossed off my bucket list.

“What breeds you got here, Charlie?” says Hagrid, gazing at the closest dragon, the black one, with something close to reverence. Its eyes are still just open. I can see a strip of gleaming yellow beneath its wrinkled black eyelid.

“This is a Hungarian Horntail,” says Charlie. “There’s a Common Welsh Green over there, the smaller one — a Swedish Short-Snout, that blue-gray — and a Chinese Fireball, that’s the red.”

Charlie looks around; Madame Maxime is strolling away around the edge of the enclosure, gazing at the Stunned dragons.

“I didn’t know you were bringing her, Hagrid,” Charlie says, frowning. “The champions aren’t supposed to know what’s coming — she’s bound to tell her student, isn’t she?”

“Jus’ thought she’d like ter see ’em,” shrugs Hagrid, still gazing, enraptured, at the dragons.

“Really romantic date, Hagrid,” says Charlie, shaking his head. I smirk thinking just around the same lines.

“Four . . .” says Hagrid, “so it’s one fer each o’ the champions, is it? What’ve they gotta do — fight ’em?”

“Just get past them, I think,” says Charlie. “We’ll be on hand if it gets nasty, Extinguishing Spells at the ready. They wanted nesting mothers, I don’t know why . . . but I tell you this, I don’t envy the one who gets the Horntail. Vicious thing. Its back end’s as dangerous as its front, look.”

Charlie points towards the Horntail’s tail, and I see long, bronze-colored spikes protruding along it every few inches. I have a nasty sinking feeling that knowing Harry he’ll end up just getting that one for the universe seems to hate him so.

Five of Charlie’s fellow keepers stagger up to the Horntail at that moment, carrying a clutch of huge granite-gray eggs between them in a blanket. They place them carefully at the Horntail’s side. Hagrid lets out a moan of longing.

“I’ve got them counted, Hagrid,” says Charlie sternly. Then he says, “How’s Harry?”

“Fine,” says Hagrid. He is still gazing at the eggs.

“Just hope he’s still fine after he’s faced this lot,” says Charlie grimly, looking out over the dragons’ enclosure. “I didn’t dare tell Mum what he’s got to do for the first task; she’s already having kittens about him. . . .” Charlie imitates his mother’s anxious voice. “‘How could they let him enter that tournament, he’s much too young! I thought they were all safe, I thought there was going to be an age limit!’ She is in floods after that Daily Prophet article about him. ‘He still cries about his parents! Oh bless him, I never knew!’”

I glance at Harry even though I can’t see him wondering how he’s holding up. Harry has had enough. Trusting to the fact that Hagrid won’t miss us, with the attractions of four dragons and Madame Maxime to occupy him, he turns silently and begins to walk away, back to the castle grabbing my sleeve to make sure that I’m with him.

We walk in silence each of us stuck in our own heads freaking out about what the first task is actually going to entail. We speed up, skirting the edge of the forest; Harry has just under fifteen minutes to get back to the fireside and talk to Sirius— when, without warning, we run into something very solid.

We fall backward, clutching the Cloak around us. A voice nearby says, “Ouch! Who’s there?”

Harry hastily checks that the Cloak is covering us and we lay very still, staring up at the dark outline of the wizard we hit. I recognize the goatee . . . it is Karkaroff. This is seriously turning out to be a weird night.

“Who’s there?” says Karkaroff again, very suspiciously, looking around in the darkness. We remain still and silent. After a minute or so, Karkaroff seems to decide that he has hit some sort of animal; he is looking around at waist height, as though expecting to see a dog. Then we creep back under the cover of the trees and start to edge forwards towards the place where the dragons were.

Very slowly and very carefully, Harry and I get to our feet and set off again as fast as we can without making too much noise, hurrying through the darkness back towards Hogwarts.

I have no doubt whatsoever what Karkaroff is up to. He snuck off his ship to try and find out what the first task is going to be. He might even have spotted Hagrid and Madame Maxime heading off around the forest together — they are hardly difficult to spot at a distance . . . and now all Karkaroff has to do was follow the sound of voices, and he, like Madame Maxime, will know what is in store for the champions.

By the looks of it, the only champion who will be facing the unknown on Tuesday is Cedric. We reach the castle, slip in through the front doors, and begin to climb the marble stairs; we are very out of breath, but we don’t dare slow down. . . . Harry has less than five minutes to get up to the fire. . . .

“Balderdash!” he gasps at the Fat Lady, who is snoozing in her frame in front of the portrait hole.

“If you say so,” she mutters sleepily, without opening her eyes, and the picture swings forward to admit him. We climb inside. The common room is deserted, and, judging by the fact that it smells quite normal, Hermione did not need to set off any Dungbombs to ensure that Harry and Sirius got privacy.

I slip off the cloak and give Harry a meaningful look. “I’ll leave you to have privacy Harry.” I tell him starting towards the girls’ dormitory.

“Jamie!” Harry says suddenly. I spin around to face my friend. A pensive look is on his face. “Thanks for coming with me tonight.” He says gratefully. I grin at him softly and shake my head.

“Like I say Potter, you can’t get rid of me that easily.” I tell him. With that I spin around and race up the stairs to my dorm, and throw myself onto my bed. I lay there looking out the window at the dark forest beyond. The only thing that’s different now is that there are four fire breathing dangerous dragons out there and one of them is destined to try and kill my friend.

With a sigh I close my eyes. This is going to be a long night.


	17. The First Task

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything you recognize is J.K. Rowling's. Except Jamie, Luka, and Ariana.

Chapter 17-The First Task

 

Sudnay morning came along sooner than I would have liked. Hermione woke me up at seven so that we could go and have breakfast with Ginny. That was nice because I hadn’t been hanging out with her as much lately as I’d wanted to. “So what do you think? Is Harry going to be ready for this challenge?” Ginny asks us softly holding a forkful of eggs near her mouth. A worried frown adorns her face, and for a moment I wonder if she still has that crush on Harry. By the way that she’s looking though, I’d say that it’s gone.

“Haven’t the foggiest idea Gin. I suppose that I’m rooting for him returning in one piece.” I say solemnly thinking of the giant brutish dragons that I had seen last night.

“Of course he’ll be fine! What’s gotten into you two? This is Harry that we’re talking about, he survives every danger thrown in his way.” She says hotly. I raise an eyebrow at her and Ginny places her fork back down on her plate.

“Something you want to tell us Mione?” I ask.

“Please don’t tell me Skeeter is right? I’d hate to have to start thinking that that hag is right about stuff.” Ginny scowls. Hermione’s cheeks flare red, but there’s a scowl on her face.

“I only care about Harry as a friend you two. There’s no need getting ideas into your head. I swear that woman is the lowest of the low insinuating stuff like that without even getting facts!” Hermione rants. I flick my gaze down the table to see Harry approaching us and he doesn’t look all that happy. Well crap, there go my thoughts of the meeting having gone well with Sirius.

“Morning Harry.” I tell him with a smile. He grunts in a distressed fashion and drags Hermione up by her elbow and proceeds to start pulling her from the hall.

“Not really a chatty Kathy in the morning as you can see. I best go quell the latest disaster. See you later Gin.” I tell the girl getting up from my place at the table. She squeezes my arm quick.

“Good luck looks like you may need it.” She replies. With a heavy sigh I nod my head and start out after my friends.

Once out on the grounds, Harry tells Hermione all about the dragons, and the both of us about everything Sirius said, while we take another long walk around the lake.

Alarmed as we are by Sirius’s warnings about Karkaroff trying to kill Harry by entering him into the cup, Hermione still thinks that the dragons are the more pressing problem. I am going to have to agree with her there because those beasts can easily kill off my friend, plot to kill him or not.

“Let’s just try and keep you alive until Tuesday evening,” Hermione says desperately, “and then we can worry about Karkaroff.”

“Do they give out awards for the help?” I muse. Harry hits me in the arm for that, but I’m feeling that if we’re going to be doing all this work in order to keep him alive, then we should get something as well (besides a living friend that is).

We walk three times around the lake, trying all the way to think of a simple spell that will subdue a dragon. Nothing whatsoever occurred to us, so we retire to the library instead. Here, I pull down every book I can find on dragons, and the three of us set to work searching through the large pile.

“‘Talon-clipping by charms . . . treating scale-rot . . .’ This is no good, this is for nutters like Hagrid who want to keep them healthy. . . .” I mutter shaking my head and throwing the book to the side.

“‘Dragons are extremely difficult to slay, owing to the ancient magic that imbues their thick hides, which none but the most powerful spells can penetrate . . .’ But Sirius said a simple one would do it. . . .” Harry says throwing his as well.

“Let’s try some simple spellbooks, then,” says Hermione, throwing aside Men Who Love Dragons Too Much.

Harry returned to the table with a pile of spellbooks, sets them down, and begins to flick through each in turn, Hermione whispering nonstop at his elbow. I grab one of the books myself so that I can attempt to be helpful to everyone. Research isn’t exactly my forte.

“Well, there are Switching Spells . . . but what’s the point of Switching it? Unless you swapped its fangs for wine-gums or something that would make it less dangerous. . . . The trouble is, like that book said, not much is going to get through a dragon’s hide. . . . I’d say Transfigure it, but something that big, you really haven’t got a hope, I doubt even Professor McGonagall . . . unless you’re supposed to put the spell on yourself? Maybe to give yourself extra powers? But they’re not simple spells, I mean, we haven’t done any of those in class, I only know about them because I’ve been doing O.W.L. practice papers. . . .”

“Hermione,” Harry says, through gritted teeth, “will you shut up for a bit, please? I’m trying to concentrate.” I huff at my friend giving him a glare because we’re just attempting to help. I cast over the spell in front of me, and grimace. I don’t think that he wants to turn his dragon into a stool. I pity the fool who attempts to sit on it (gives a whole new meaning to the term ‘hot seat’).

After a few minutes Hermione speaks back up again. “Oh no, he’s back again, why can’t he read on his stupid ship?” says Hermione irritably as Viktor Krum slouches in, casts a surly look over at the three of us, and settles himself in a distant corner with a pile of books. “Come on, Harry, we’ll go back to the common room . . . his fan club’ll be here in a moment, twittering away. . . .”

And sure enough, as we leave the library, a gang of girls tiptoe past us, one of them wearing a Bulgaria scarf tied around her waist. I bite my lower lip wondering why Krum would possibly be looking our way in the first place.

* * *

Monday morning came whether anyone wanted it to or not. Hermione and I ate a very silent and pensive breakfast with Harry since he was deep in thought and seemed to be very troubled. I’ve had to stop Hermione for speaking to him three times now since she’s worried about him. I like to think that I know Harry by now, and he is definitely in a mood that screams for time alone.

I’ve also caught him staring at Cedric Diggory a lot so I have the distinct feeling that Harry is feeling conflicted about whether to tell him about the dragons or not.

“Jamie, Hermione, I’ll see you in the greenhouses,” Harry says abruptly as Cedric leaves the hall. “Go on, I’ll catch you up.”

“Harry, you’ll be late, the bell’s about to ring —” Hermione starts.

“Mione let him go.” I scold her lightly.

“I’ll catch you up, okay?” Harry says absently hurrying out of the Great Hall and after Cedric. On our way to Herbology a short time later I get lectured on how its not safe for Harry to be distracted at this point in time, and how we have to double (make that triple) our efforts in helping him out.

Once we arrive at greenhouse three I practically run over to where Ariana is leaning again the house. I have never needed to get away from Hermione more. “Someone looks irritated.” Ariana says raising an eyebrow as she takes my appearance in.

“Well you would bloody well too Dumbledore. I’ve spent the last twelve hours holed up with Harry and Hermione in the library researching ways on how to not get him killed come first task. Between Harry’s dour, depressed, and distracted mood, and Hermione’s frantic researching I’m going mad!” I cry holding my head in my hands.

“Okay Pendragon. You need to take a deep breath here. You’re way too young to be having a stress related panic attack on me. If you’re going to go it will be because of some highly improbable and entirely dangerous adventure that you and your friends seem to get sucked into all the time.” She tells me placing her hands on my shoulders and looking into my eyes.

I manage to quirk up the corner of my mouth at that, but at this point I’m still entirely too stressed out. “What if Harry gets hurt Ari? I can’t be there to protect him this time. I’m going to be sitting in the stands helplessly as he faces d— danger. I’m one of his best friends. I’m supposed to be there for him!” I stress trying to get her to understand the pressure that I’m under.

Ariana tightens her grasp on my shoulders and stares me hard in the eyes. I don’t think that I’ve seen her brown eyes look so serious before. “You are a phenomenally brilliant best friend Jamie you go above the call of any best friend by placing Harry’s safety before yours granted stupidly so. There is going to be a point though when you are not going to be able to protect him all the time anymore, and we are at that time Jamie.”

I think that she can still see the distress that is clearly in my eyes. “That’s why I’m going to help you in getting Potter prepared for this task. I can’t have him go and die because that will make you cry. Then when it comes time to watch, I will sit next to you and hold your hand the whole way though. How does that sound?” Ariana asks me.   
I stare at the young Dumbledore thoroughly shocked for a few seconds before nodding my head dumbly in agreement. Ariana grins at me fondly before shaking her head. “Better now?” She questions. I clear my throat and blush lightly at the teasing accusation.

“Yes much.” I stutter out. And so we were let into the greenhouse for the start of the lesson. Hermione, Ariana, and I were all working together talking quietly about what we could do to help Harry out. As if should surprise no one Miss Dumbledore already knew of the dragons. I have this theory that she just inherently knows anything and everything that is going on around Hogwarts.

If she had indulged in such vapid tendencies she would be the main gossip hub of the entire school. Luckily for all of us Ariana is above all that. Halfway through the lesson Harry comes stumbling through the door looking all too excited and over stressed. Just seeing him like that again makes my own blood pressure rise.

“Hermione, Jamie,” Harry whispers. “Guys — I need you to help me.”

“What d’you think we’ve been trying to do, Harry? Ariana says that she’ll help us out now. She has a few ideas—” Hermione whispers back, her eyes round with anxiety over the top of the quivering Flutterby Bush she is pruning.

“Jamie, Hermione, I need to learn how to do a Summoning Charm properly by tomorrow afternoon.”

Well he couldn’t give us a more impossible task.

* * *

 

And so we practice. We don’t have lunch, but head for a free classroom, where Harry tries with all his might to make various objects fly across the room towards him. We have even managed to pick up Luka on ‘Team Have Potter not Die’. Harry is still having problems. The books and quills keep losing heart halfway across the room and dropping like stones to the floor.

“Concentrate, Harry, concentrate. . . . ” Hermione nags.

“I didn’t think that Harry Potter had such issues with spells. You’re almost kinda mythical in my house.” Luka comments form his place atop a desk.

“What d’you think I’m trying to do?” says Harry angrily. “A great big dragon keeps popping up in my head for some reason. . . . Okay, try again. . . .”

“That’s because Ravenclaws are such terrible socially informed people. Your heads are all in the clouds or in the books Luka.” Ariana returns making an apple zoom across the room to her hand (it was out of my hand of course). My pout doesn’t seem to draw any sympathy from the girl though as she bites into it hard.

“Come on Harry this isn’t all that hard of a spell. It’s a quite natural wrist movement and being relaxed is key to making the spell work properly.” I say crossing my arms over my chest as I scrutinize my friend. I have a feeling that this is going to take way longer than originally planned.

Harry wants to skip Divination to keep practicing, but Hermione refuses point-blank to skive off Arithmancy, and there is no point in staying without her (since Ariana and Luka would never skip). Harry and I therefore have to endure over an hour of Professor Trelawney, who spends half the lesson telling everyone that the position of Mars with relation to Saturn at that moment meant that people born in July are in great danger of sudden, violent deaths.

“Well, that’s good,” says Harry loudly, his temper getting the better of him, “just as long as it’s not drawn-out. I don’t want to suffer.”

I couldn’t help but snort with laughter at that one. Ron looked like he was going to laugh but judging by the dark look still on Harry’s face, he’s still too mad to care about the small progress being made.

Hermione, Harry, and I have a quick dinner after Divination, then return to the empty classroom using the Invisibility Cloak to avoid the teachers. We keep practicing until past midnight. We would stay longer, but Peeves turns up and, pretending to think that Harry wants things thrown at him, starts chucking chairs across the room. We leave in a hurry before the noise attracts Filch, and go back to the Gryffindor common room, which is now mercifully empty.

At two o’clock in the morning, Harry stands near the fireplace, surrounded by heaps of objects: books, quills, several upturned chairs, an old set of Gobstones, and Neville’s toad, Trevor. Only in the last hour has Harry really gotten the hang of the Summoning Charm.

That’s good because I’ve never been so disheveled or tired in my life. Who knew that learning one little summoning charm could be so dangerous? I’ve had to dodge so many objects to keep from getting hit tonight. “That’s better, Harry, that’s loads better,” Hermione says, looking exhausted but very pleased.

“Yeah you’ve got the hang of it, but make sure that I’m nowhere near you since you’re dangerous.” I tell him with a yawn.

“Well, now we know what to do next time I can’t manage a spell,” Harry says, throwing a rune dictionary back to Hermione, so he can try again, “threaten me with a dragon. Right . . .” He raises his wand once more. “Accio Dictionary!”

The heavy book soars out of Hermione’s hand, flies across the room, and Harry catches it.

“Harry, I really think you’ve got it!” says Hermione delightedly.

“Just as long as it works tomorrow,” Harry says. “The Firebolt’s going to be much farther away than the stuff in here, it’s going to be in the castle, and I’m going to be out there on the grounds. . . .”

“That doesn’t matter,” Hermione says firmly. “Just as long as you’re concentrating really, really hard on it, it’ll come. Harry, we’d better get some sleep . . . you’re going to need it.”

“Yeah and remember boy wonder, sharp teeth and bursts of fire are bad.” I say attempting to lighten the atmosphere a little. Harry glares at me and gives me a small shove.

“Should be easy enough. I’ve survived you for all these years haven’t I Pendragon?” He quips, dodging the blow I send his way, sending him scampering up the steps to the boys’ dormitory.

“He’s going to make it right?” Hermione asks me suddenly whipping around to face me while we’re halfway to our own beds.

“Mione this is Harry that we’re talking about. He’s ready for anything. We’ll have nothing to worry about.” I say trying to reassure her and more importantly myself. Even though I’m bone tired, the worry begins to seep back into me slowly. I hope that I’ll be able to get some rest; I’m going to need my wits about me for tomorrow.

* * *

 

The following morning the atmosphere in the school is one of great tension and excitement. Lessons are to stop at midday, giving all the students time to get down to the dragons’ enclosure — though of course, they don’t yet know what they will find there. I found it not all that comforting knowing about the challenge ahead of time.

Through the night I conjured pictures of Harry’s burned body, or crushed head. I just hate not being able to be by his side this time to face the danger. I’ve always been there with him, and it doesn’t sit well with me that I won’t be there now.

Time is behaving in a more peculiar fashion than ever, rushing past in great dollops, so that one moment I seem to be sitting down in our first lesson, History of Magic, and the next, walking into lunch . . . and then (where has the morning gone? the last of the dragon-free hours?), Professor McGonagall is hurrying over to Harry in the Great Hall. Lots of people are watching.

“Potter, the champions have to come down onto the grounds now. . . . You have to get ready for your first task.”

“Okay,” says Harry, standing up, his fork falling onto his plate with a clatter. I look worriedly at my friend. He’s just not acting right, but then again I would be different facing a real life dragon as well.

“Good luck, Harry,” Hermione whispers. “You’ll be fine!”

“Remember what I said Potter no teeth or fire, and you’ll be golden. I have faith in you!” I tell him clapping my friend on the shoulder.

“Yeah,” says Harry in a voice that is most unlike his own. With that he leaves the hall following after Professor McGonagall.

I follow my friend with my eyes until he disappears from view. Suddenly lunch doesn’t seem like such a good idea anymore. I lower my fork to my plate and shoot Hermione a pensive look, even though it already seems like she’s halfway onto a freak out of her very own.

“Cheer up girls! I’m sure that Harry has a few tricks up his sleeves!” Fred Weasley says plopping down next to me.

“Not that you don’t know that already. So let’s have it? What’s boy wonder’s plan of attack?” George questions, sliding in next to Hermione. Ginny let’s out a sound of disgust as she sits next to me on my other side.

“Don’t mind them guys, those two are only being nosey because they’ve got a pool going on and they want to know the odds before the bets become higher.” She tells us munching on a sandwich. My stomach turns wondering how she’s able to eat at a time like this.

Then I look around at all my redheaded friends and remember that despite the fact that Ginny is a girl she’s still a Weasley, and Weasleys have bottomless stomachs.

“That’s terrible! How can you do that to your friend?” Hermione cries looking outraged.

“Its only business Hermione, besides there are three other champions to bet on as well.” Fred reminds her tapping his head.

“Still dreadful business.” She mutters. I glance down the table a ways and see Ron sitting in between Seamus and Dean. He looks rather upset though, like there’s something on his mind. I think that he’s worried about Harry as he should be. It took him bloody long enough!

Boys are just so stubborn and egotistical! “Ron will come out of it Jamie, you’ll see. Our little brother just has his head stuck a little too tightly up his arse.” George says guessing my trail of thought.

Suddenly people start getting up and making their way out of the Great Hall, and the excited chatter increases greatly. I bit my lip and swallow nervously. I guess that its time to make our way down to the dragons.

Hermione, Fred, George, Ginny, and I get up and slowly make our way towards the entrance hall. Once there we get stopped on the flow of traffic attempting to exit the castle. I shift nervously and look around trying to spot my brother. He said that he would be here with me for this.

We make our way gradually to the front but before we get out I hear him. “Jamie! Wait up!” Luka cries pushing his way through a group of Beauxbatons girls while blushing furiously. Ariana follows behind him with her mouth in a straight line. I slow down and allow for them to catch up with me, as we finally make it out of the castle.

With that the seven of us start our way down to the stage for the first tournament, which is by the edge of the Forbidden Forest near where Harry and I found the dragons with Hagrid’s help. “So come out with it then. Did he do it? Was he finally able to master it?” Luka asks me pulling up to my side.

Ariana falls into place on my other side. “I wouldn’t go around talking about mastery anytime soon but lets say that he can get objects to come to him now.” I say putting it the best way that I can think.

“Well at least that’s good. How again did Harry come up with this idea to summon his broomstick to him for this task?” Ariana asks me softly, wary of the Weasleys in front of us distracting Hermione. By way of distraction I mean Hermione running after the twins as they collect money for bets. She seems to have a lecture for nearly all situations.

“Well that’s the funny thing you see. Harry told us that Moody told him to do that. He asked what Harry’s good at and the only thing he could think of was Quidditch so, Moody told him to summon his broom. Honestly I just hope that he’s still alive at the end of this thing. I can’t stand just sitting helplessly watching him in danger.” I say biting my lip.

“Don’t worry Jame, Harry hasn’t died yet and Voldemort’s been trying to kill him. I highly doubt that he’s going to have too much trouble with a dragon.” Luka tells me trying to reassure me. I pale thinking of all the ways that Voldemort could try to kill Harry with a dragon though.

Ariana glares at my brother and slaps him on the arm. “Ow.” My brother pouts rubbing the sore spot.

“What genius over there means to say Jamie is that Harry is going to make it. I have faith in that and so should you.” She tells me. I study her eyes for a moment only seeing firm resolve and belief. I slowly nod my head in agreement.

We finally arrive to the stadium and file into seats near the middle. I have Ariana on one side of me, and Hermione on the other. I know that Hermione is especially worried about what’s going to happen to Harry since she’s the worrier of our little broken group.

I can see Ron a row in front of us and a few seats to the left, he’s again with Dean and Seamus. Now that we’re actually here my panic begins to set in though everyone else seems to be ready to have a good time. Before I can start entirely freaking out though a hands grabs mine and squeezes tight. I glance down and then back up at the girl holding onto me.

“I promised you that I’d be here for you and I am.” Ariana tells me and I smile softly at the brown eyed girl. She really is a one of a kind extraordinary friend isn’t she?

Suddenly there’s noise from the teachers’ stands and everyone looks expectantly at Ludo Bagman who has risen. “Ladies and gentlemen it is now time for the moment that you have all been waiting for! The first task of the Tri-Wizard Tournament,” he pauses to let the cheers die down, “I only have one thing left to say to you all— bring out the DRAGON!” He roars and suddenly the ground shudders as a gate is opened and dragon keeps come out wrestling the blueish grey Swedish Short-Snout dragon into the arena’s center where it is chained to the ground.

Let me tell you, this dragon does not look one bit like a happy camper. The other thing that I notice is the shiny golden egg that’s propped up in the center of the giant nest in the arena. Oh Merlin— they’re going to have to steal a dragon’s egg, this is suicide.

I squeeze Ariana’s hand tightly even though I don’t know if it’s Harry dragon or not. Hermione leans into my side obviously not entirely comfortable with this situation either.

“The first champion to face the task will be Cedric Diggory against the Swedish Short-Snout!” Bagman booms. There’s a shrill whistle and Cedric appears from the Champions’ tent. He looks grim but determined in his Hufflepuff yellow only armed with a wand.

Ariana grips my hand tighter and I try to be comforting for her after all this is her friend out there, even if he is more prepared for this battle. What happens is all a riveting, gruesome blur that I can’t take my eyes away from even if I wanted to.

“Oooh, narrow miss there, very narrow” . . . “He’s taking risks, this one!” . . . “Clever move — pity it didn’t work!”

And then, after about fifteen minutes, the deafening roar sounds that means only one thing: Cedric has gotten past his dragon and captured the golden egg. What a frightening task.

“Very good indeed!” Bagman is shouting. “And now the marks from the judges!” I don’t bother looking at the marks from the judges though, I’m too busy watching Cedric being taken away to the makeshift hospital wing. Ariana lets out a rather shaky breath from beside me.

“That was rather horrifying.” She finally states. Hermione turns her large eyes to us.

“I’ll say.” She squeaks faintly.

“At least he made it and he’s alive. That’s really all that matters in the end.” I say trying to sound upbeat.

The first dragon is dragged away and the second comes in to replace it the emerald Welsh Green dragon. I’m starting to think that pissed off are the only moods that they come in around now. I have no idea why Charlie wants to be around them all the time.

“The second Champion to face the task will be Fleur Delacour against the Welsh Green!” Bagman announces. A whistle sounds and this time Fleur stumbles into the arena. This go around isn’t any better than the last.

The same process starts again. . . . “Oh I’m not sure that was wise,” Bagman shouts gleefully. “Oh . . . nearly! Careful now . . . good lord, I thought she’d had it then!”

Ten minutes later, the crowd erupts into applause once more. . . . Fleur is successful too. A pause, while Fleur’s marks are being shown . . . more clapping . . . then, for the third time, the whistle.

“And here comes Mr. Krum!” cries Bagman abandoning all formality and getting swept up in the moment.

Krum is facing off against the Chinese Fireball, which makes my heart drop. Harry is going to get the worst of them all. This is absolutely horrible.

“Very daring!” Bagman is yelling, and I hear the Chinese Fireball emit a horrible, roaring shriek, while the crowd draws its collective breath (Ariana and Hermione squeezing my hands to death). “That’s some nerve he’s showing — and — yes, he’s got the egg!”

Applause shatters the wintery air like breaking glass; Krum has finished — it will be Harry’s turn any moment. A lump forms in my throat and the grip on my hands increase from Hermione and Ariana, Hermione to reassure herself, and Ariana to reassure me.

Harry has the worst of them all the Hungarian Horntail. It’s just his luck isn’t it? My friend must be cursed or something.

The whistle blows. “And last but definitely not least Harry Potter!” Bagman yells. The crowd goes wild with either cheers or boos for Harry. I would be cheering for him if I weren’t so darn afraid.

Harry slips out of the tent and gawks at the dragon for a moment. The Horntail is at the other end of the enclosure, crouching low over her clutch of eggs, her wings half-furled, her evil, yellow eyes upon Harry, a monstrous, scaly, black lizard, thrashing her spiked tail, leaving yard-long gouge marks in the hard ground.

Oh this is certainly worse than standing beside my friend. I swallow hard and lean into Ariana. Part of me wants to turn away, but I can’t abandon Harry like that, I never could.

He raises his wand. “Accio Firebolt!” he shouts. I send a prayer to Merlin to help Harry out and make this spell work.

We pause for a moment for nothing happens. And then I hear it, speeding through the air behind Harry; he turns and sees his Firebolt hurtling towards him around the edge of the woods, soaring into the enclosure, and stopping dead in midair beside him, waiting for him to mount. The crowd is making even more noise. . . . Bagman is shouting something . . . but my ears are not working properly anymore . . . listening isn’t important. . . . Harry is.

He swings his leg over the broom and kicks off from the ground. And a second later, something miraculous happened. . . .

Harry soars upward. I let go the breath that I hadn’t realized that I’d been holding. “See he got it to work.” Ariana tells us, trying to comfort both Hermione and me.

“Thank Merlin.” Hermione breathes stealing my line.

Harry is hovering over the arena, and I know that he’s analyzing it for a strategy. He may not be able to beat Ron at chess, but Quidditch is an entirely different thing, and Harry is great at it.

He dives. The Horntail’s head follows him; he knows what it is going to do and pulls out of the dive just in time; a jet of fire has been released exactly where he would have be if he did not swerve away.

“Great Scott, he can fly!” yells Bagman as the crowd shrieks and gasps. “Are you watching this, Mr. Krum?”

Harry soars higher in a circle; the Horntail is still following his progress; its head revolving on its long neck — if he keeps this up, it would be nicely dizzy (as the rest of us).

Harry starts taunting the dragon by flying higher but staying close enough to continue to be a threat. I can see what he’s doing. He wants her to fly, to go after him. I think that I can see what his plan is— hopefully.

And then the dragon rears, spreading her great, black, leathery wings at last, as wide as those of a small muggle airplane (Hermione showed me a still picture once) — and Harry dives. Before the dragon knows what he has done, or where he has disappeared to, he is speeding towards the ground as fast as he can go, towards the eggs now unprotected by her clawed front legs — he has taken his hands off his Firebolt — he has seized the golden egg —

And with a huge spurt of speed, he is off, Harry is soaring out over the stands, the heavy egg safely under his uninjured arm, and it is as though somebody has just turned the volume back up. Everyone is screaming and applauding including me, since I jumped to me feet, yelling loudly, and clapping wildly in support of my friend, now that the danger is over.

I can’t believe he did it! But then again he is Harry Potter, and I should know better since he seems to be able to do everything.

Hermione is on her feet as well, and is jumping up and down besides me grabbing my arm in celebration.

Ariana is clapping as well. “Look at that!” Bagman is yelling. “Will you look at that! Our youngest champion is quickest to get his egg! Well, this is going to shorten the odds on Mr. Potter!”

That’s Harry all right! Hermione and I start pushing our way out of the stands needing to see Harry. I turn to Ariana to explain but she just waves me off. “Go check on Potter, and tell him that he won me fifty sickles!” She shouts at me. I stop for a second stunned. Not that Ariana had bet on Harry to succeed but that she had bet in the first place.

I don’t have time to think it out though, for Hermione is pulling on my hand hard to get to the infirmary tent. On our way there though we run into a pale shaky looking Ron. “Ron!” Hermione cries not expecting to see him.

“H-hey Hermione… Jamie.” He says slowly not sure what the reactions that he’s going to get from us.

“You’re going to apologize right?” Hermione asks tersely. Ron nods his head rapidly.

“Good.” She says. Ron turns to me. I cross my arms over my chest and bite down on my lower lip.

“Are you done being a git?” I question allowing some bite to come into my voice. Ron gulps and nods his head again.

“Yeah…” He says trailing off.

“All right, but I’m not the one you have to apologize to so come on!” I say, waving us on so that we can go see Harry. We finally burst through the tent a minute later, Hermione dashing over to Harry.

“Harry, you were brilliant!” Hermione says squeakily. There are fingernail marks on her face where she was clutching them in fear. “You were amazing! You really were!”

“Congrats Harry, that was a brilliant job! I knew you could do it boy wonder!” I exclaim.

But Harry is looking at Ron, who is very white and staring at Harry as though he is a ghost.

“Harry,” he says, very seriously, “whoever put your name in that goblet — I — I reckon they’re trying to do you in!”

“Caught on, have you?” says Harry coldly. “Took you long enough.” Hermione stands nervously between them, looking from one to the other. I don’t like how this is going. Ron opens his mouth uncertainly.

“It’s okay,” Harry says, before Ron can get the words out. “Forget it.”

“No,” says Ron, “I shouldn’t’ve —”

“Forget it,” Harry says. Ron grins nervously at him, and Harry grins back. Hermione bursts into tears. Thank Merlin that wasn’t as painful as it could have been.

“There’s nothing to cry about!” Harry tells her, bewildered.

“You two are so stupid!” she shouts, stamping her foot on the ground, tears splashing down her front. Then, before either of them can stop her, she has given both of them a hug and dashes away, now positively howling. I swear sometimes I don’t even know the half of what goes on with that girl.

“Barking mad,” says Ron, shaking his head. “Harry, c’mon, they’ll be putting up your scores. . . .”

Picking up the golden egg and his Firebolt, Harry ducks out of the tent, Ron, and me by his side, talking fast (well at least Ron is).

“You were the best, you know, no competition. Cedric did this weird thing where he Transfigured a rock on the ground . . . turned it into a dog . . . he was trying to make the dragon go for the dog instead of him. Well, it was a pretty cool bit of Transfiguration, and it sort of worked, because he did get the egg, but he got burned as well — the dragon changed its mind halfway through and decided it would rather have him than the Labrador; he only just got away. And that Fleur girl tried this sort of charm, I think she was trying to put it into a trance — well, that kind of worked too, it went all sleepy, but then it snored, and this great jet of flame shot out, and her skirt caught fire — she put it out with a bit of water out of her wand. And Krum — you won’t believe this, but he didn’t even think of flying! He was probably the best after you, though. Hit it with some sort of spell right in the eye. Only thing is, it went trampling around in agony and squashed half the real eggs — they took marks off for that— he wasn’t supposed to do any damage to them.”

I can’t believe that he fit all of that into one sentence. Ron draws breath as we reach the edge of the enclosure. Now that the Horntail has been taken away we can see where the five judges are sitting — right at the other end, in raised seats draped in gold.

“It’s marks out of ten from each one,” Ron says, and I, squint up the field, seeing first judge — Madame Maxime — raise her wand in the air. What looks like a long silver ribbon shoots out of it, which twists itself into a large figure eight.

“Not bad!” I say as the crowd applauded. “I suppose she took marks off for your shoulder. . . .”

Mr. Crouch comes next. He shoots a number nine into the air. “Looking good!” Ron yells, thumping Harry on the back. Next, Dumbledore. He too puts up a nine. The crowd is cheering harder than ever. Ludo Bagman — ten.

“Ten?” says Harry in disbelief. “But . . . I got hurt. . . . What’s he playing at?” I don’t understand why he’s so unhappy. He should just take the score and run with it.

“Harry, don’t complain!” Ron yells excitedly. And now Karkaroff raises his wand. He pauses for a moment, and then a number shoots out of his wand too — four.

“What?” Ron and I bellow furiously.

“Four? You lousy, biased scumbag, you gave Krum ten!” Ron shouts. Harry doesn’t seem to care though for not only are Gryffindors cheering him on but the whole school now seems to be on his side and Cedric’s as well. The Slytherins don’t really matter though.

“You’re tied in first place, Harry! You and Krum!” says Charlie Weasley, hurrying to meet us as they set off back towards the school. “Listen, I’ve got to run, I’ve got to go and send Mum an owl, I swore I’d tell her what happened — but that was unbelievable! Oh yeah — and they told me to tell you you’ve got to hang around for a few more minutes. . . . Bagman wants a word, back in the champions’ tent.”

Harry looks at both of us uncertainly. “Go on Harry, we can wait.” I tell him with a smile.

“Yeah mate, we’re not going anywhere.” Ron says firmly draping an arm around my shoulder. I roll my eyes at him.

“Okay… be right back!” Harry calls hurrying back to the champions’ tent. I turn my gaze to Ron and give him a level look.

“Okay lay it on me. How long are you going to be furious with me?” He asks giving me a contrite look, but I’m beyond caring at the moment.

“How long were you not speaking to us?” I ask in return. Ron pales and gives me a wounded look.

“Come on Jamie give a bloke a little break! Besides you live with me, you can’t just stop talking to me!” He cries. I shrug out of his grasp and turn away from him so that he can’t see my smile. This is going to be fun playing with him a little. Its not like he doesn’t deserve it!

A few minutes later of nonstop groveling from Ron Harry reappears. “What was all that about?” I ask trying to change the subject.

“Tell you later. Right now, I just want to get back to the castle and enjoy being alive with my friends.” Harry says, draping his arms around Ron’s and my shoulders. I cringe a little at the sweat on Harry but its mostly dried.

“Harry I mean this out of the best intentions but when we get back your first order should be to shower for you smell like dragon dung.” I tell him seriously. Harry looks offended for a moment, but then he bursts into laughter along with Ron, and I join in.

This is how it’s supposed to be. Together we can do this.


	18. The House-Elf Liberation Front

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything you recognize is J.K. Rowling's. Except Jamie, Luka, and Ariana.

Chapter 18-The House-Elf Liberation Front

 

Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I go up to the Owlery that evening to find Pigwidgeon, so that Harry can send Sirius a letter telling him that he has managed to get past his dragon unscathed. On the way, Harry fills Ron in on everything Sirius has told him about Karkaroff. Though shocked at first to hear that Karkaroff was a Death Eater, by the time we enter the Owlery Ron is saying that we ought to have suspected it all along.

“Fits, doesn’t it?” he says. “Remember what Malfoy said on the train, about his dad being friends with Karkaroff? Now we know where they knew each other. They were probably running around in masks together at the World Cup. . . . I’ll tell you one thing, though, Harry, if it was Karkaroff who put your name in the goblet, he’s going to be feeling really stupid now, isn’t he? Didn’t work, did it? You only got a scratch! Come here — I’ll do it —”

Pigwidgeon is so overexcited at the idea of a delivery he is flying around and around Harry’s head, hooting incessantly. Ron snatches Pigwidgeon out of the air and holds him still while Harry attaches the letter to his leg.

“I dunno it could still be someone else. Though Karkaroff has made himself a very big target.” I speculate petting Dionysus’ beak after he had flown down onto my shoulder.

“True, but there’s no way any of the other tasks are going to be that dangerous, how could they be?” Ron goes on as he carries Pigwidgeon to the window. “You know what? I reckon you could win this tournament, Harry, I’m serious.”

Well where was Mr. Over Enthusiastic when we needed him huh? Hermione, however, leans against the Owlery wall, folds her arms, and frowns at Ron.

“Harry’s got a long way to go before he finishes this tournament,” she says seriously. “If that was the first task, I hate to think what’s coming next.”

“Right little ray of sunshine, aren’t you?” says Ron. “You and Professor Trelawney should get together sometime.” I roll my eyes at the bickering. I can’t believe that they’re already going at it.

He throws Pigwidgeon out of the window. Pigwidgeon plummets twelve feet before managing to pull himself back up again; the letter attached to his leg is much longer and heavier than usual. We watch Pigwidgeon disappear into the darkness, and then Ron says, “Well, we’d better get downstairs for your surprise party, Harry — Fred and George should have nicked enough food from the kitchens by now.”

Oh how could I forget the possibility of a victory party being thrown by my favorite pair of redheaded twins? A grin is plastered permanently to my face all the way back up to the tower.

Sure enough, when we enter the Gryffindor common room it explodes with cheers and yells again. There are mountains of cakes and flagons of pumpkin juice and butterbeer on every surface; Lee Jordan has let off some Filibuster’s Fireworks, so that the air is thick with stars and sparks; and Dean Thomas, who is very good at drawing, has put up some impressive new banners, most of which depict Harry zooming around the Horntail’s head on his Firebolt, though a couple show Cedric with his head on fire.

We help ourselves to some food and find a table to sit at. Harry looks pretty ridiculously happy. I can understand that feeling he just completed the first task brilliantly and he has about three months until the next one, so that’s good.

“Blimey, this is heavy,” says Lee Jordan, picking up the golden egg, which Harry has left on a table, and weighing it in his hands. “Open it, Harry, go on! Let’s just see what’s inside it!”

“He’s supposed to work out the clue on his own,” Hermione says swiftly. “It’s in the tournament rules. . . .”

“Oh come on Mione lighten up.” I tell my friend lightly.

“I was supposed to work out how to get past the dragon on my own too,” Harry mutters, so only Hermione and I can hear him, and she grins rather guiltily while I smirk.

“Yeah, go on, Harry, open it!” several people echo. I have to admit that I am rather curious to see what is inside the egg that will lead us to the next task. I guess the thrill of adventure hasn’t completely left me yet.

Lee passes Harry the egg, and Harry digs his fingernails into the groove that runs all the way around it and pries it open.

It is hollow and completely empty — but the moment Harry opens it, the most horrible noise, a loud and screechy wailing, fills the room. The nearest thing to it I have ever heard is the ghost orchestra at Nearly Headless Nick’s deathday party, who were all been playing the musical saw. I cover my ears in pain feeling like my ears are bleeding.

“Shut it!” Fred bellows, his hands over his ears.

“What was that?” says Seamus Finnigan, staring at the egg as Harry slams it shut again. “Sounded like a banshee. . . . Maybe you’ve got to get past one of those next, Harry!”

“I think I’m deaf.” I comment more towards myself.

“It was someone being tortured!” says Neville, who has gone very white and spills sausage rolls all over the floor. “You’re going to have to fight the Cruciatus Curse!”

“Don’t be a prat, Neville, that’s illegal,” says George. “They wouldn’t use the Cruciatus Curse on the champions. I thought it sounded a bit like Percy singing . . . maybe you’ve got to attack him while he’s in the shower, Harry.” I grimace thinking about how many mornings of mine have been ruined waking up to that god awful warbling.

“Want a jam tart, Hermione?” asks Fred. Hermione looks doubtfully at the plate he is offering her. Fred grins.

“It’s all right,” he says. “I haven’t done anything to them. It’s the custard creams you’ve got to watch —”

Neville, who has just bitten into a custard cream, chokes and spits it out. Fred laughs, and I can’t stifle my chuckle in time. I like Neville, I really do but you have to admit that was pretty funny.

“Just my little joke, Neville. . . .” Hermione takes a jam tart. Then she says, “Did you get all this from the kitchens, Fred?” Oh boy, here we go.

“Yep,” says Fred, grinning at her. He puts on a high-pitched squeak and imitates a house-elf. “‘Anything we can get you, sir, anything at all!’ They’re dead helpful . . . get me a roast ox if I said I was peckish.”

“How do you get in there?” Hermione says in an innocently casual sort of voice. That is something that I will never tell her.

“Easy,” says Fred, “concealed door behind a painting of a bowl of fruit. Just tickle the pear, and it giggles and —” He stops and looked suspiciously at her (I slap my forehead in annoyance). “Why?”

“Nothing,” says Hermione quickly.

“Going to try and lead the house-elves out on strike now, are you?” says George.  “Going to give up all the leaflet stuff and try and stir them up into rebellion?” Several people chortle. Hermione doesn’t answer. That’s going to be a pointless speech that she will give them unfortunately. I feel for them, but honestly they’re happy working at Hogwarts so we should just leave them be.

“Don’t you go upsetting them and telling them they’ve got to take clothes and salaries!” says Fred warningly. “You’ll put them off their cooking!”

Just then, Neville causes a slight diversion by turning into a large canary. “Oh — sorry, Neville!” Fred shouts over all the laughter. “I forgot — it was the custard creams we hexed —”

“I remember that one! Gin, remember Percy turning into the ugliest canary you’ve ever seen with wire rimmed glasses?” I call out laughing to Ginny. She’s hanging out with some friends a few feet away and she bursts out laughing at the memory.

“If I remember correctly Jamie, you took a couple and had some fun as a yellow bird yourself!” She smirks. I smirk and shrug my shoulders. What can I say? It was a slow day.

Within a minute, however, Neville has molted, and once his feathers have fallen off, he reappears looking entirely normal. He even joins in laughing.

“Canary Creams!” Fred shouts to the excitable crowd. “George and I invented them — seven Sickles each, a bargain!”

I think that it’s safe to say that this was one of the best days that we’ve had in a long time. It was nearly one in the morning when we decide that the night is finally over and its time to go to bed. After bidding goodnight to the boys Hermione and I climb the steps back to our dormitory.

Once there I have to roll my eyes at the excited chatter between Lavender and Parvati about how Harry is really hot winning the first challenge. Oh Merlin no! I can’t deal with this. “Excuse me while I go and smother myself with a pillow.” I say to Hermione as she rolls her eyes.

When I get to my bed I collapse, and pull my pillow over my head attempting to drown out the twittering of the airheads that I unfortunately live with. Well this night could have ended on a better note.

* * *

 

The start of December brings wind and sleet to Hogwarts. Drafty though the castle always is in winter, I am glad of its fires and thick walls every time I pass the Durmstrang ship on the lake, which is pitching in the high winds, its black sails billowing against the dark skies. I think the Beauxbatons caravan is likely to be pretty chilly too. Hagrid, I notice, is keeping Madame Maxime’s horses well provided with their preferred drink of single-malt whiskey; the fumes wafting from the trough in the corner of their paddock is enough to make the entire Care of Magical Creatures class light-headed.

This is unhelpful, as we are still tending the horrible skrewts and need our wits about us.

“I’m not sure whether they hibernate or not,” Hagrid tells the shivering class in the windy pumpkin patch next lesson. “Thought we’d jus’ try an’ see if they fancied a kip . . . we’ll jus’ settle ’em down in these boxes. . . .”

There are now only ten skrewts left; apparently their desire to kill one another has not been exercised out of them. Each of them is now approaching six feet in length. Their thick gray armor; their powerful, scuttling legs; their fire-blasting ends; their stings and their suckers, combined to make the skrewts the most repulsive things I have ever seen. The class looks dispiritedly at the enormous boxes Hagrid has brought out, all lined with pillows and fluffy blankets. I’m not exactly looking forward to this either.

“We’ll jus’ lead ’em in here,” Hagrid says, “an’ put the lids on, and we’ll see what happens.”

But the skrewts, it transpires, do not hibernate, and did not appreciate being forced into pillow-lined boxes and nailed in. Hagrid is soon yelling, “Don’ panic, now, don’ panic!” while the skrewts rampage around the pumpkin patch, now strewn with the smoldering wreckage of the boxes. Most of the class — Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle in the lead — have fled into Hagrid’s cabin through the back door and barricaded themselves in (wimps); Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I however, are among those who remain outside trying to help Hagrid.

I’m seriously starting to reconsider my adventures for some people (Ariana and Luka) are going to start wondering if I have a death wish. I don’t— I think.

Together we manage to restrain and tie up nine of the skrewts, though at the cost of numerous burns and cuts; finally, only one skrewt is left. I feel like I’m starting to look like Moody. That’s not a good thing.

“Don’ frighten him, now!” Hagrid shouts as Ron, and I use our wands to shoot jets of fiery sparks at the skrewt, which is advancing menacingly on us, its sting arches, quivering, over its back. “Jus’ try an’ slip the rope ’round his sting, so he won’ hurt any o’ the others!”

“Yeah, we wouldn’t want that!” Ron shouts angrily as we back into the wall of Hagrid’s cabin, still holding the skrewt off with our sparks.

“Well, well, well . . . this does look like fun.” FUN? IS THIS LADY MENTAL?

Rita Skeeter is leaning on Hagrid’s garden fence, looking in at the mayhem. She is wearing a thick magenta cloak with a furry purple collar today, and her crocodile-skin handbag is over her arm.

Hagrid launches himself forwards on top of the skrewt that is cornering Ron and me and flattens it; a blast of fire shoots out of its end, withering the pumpkin plants nearby, poor pumpkins what a waste.

“Who’re you?” Hagrid asks Rita Skeeter as he slips a loop of rope around the skrewt’s sting and tightens it.

“Rita Skeeter, Daily Prophet reporter,” Rita replies, beaming at him. Her gold teeth glint. Oh great just what I needed today that hag writing about us in the paper, just my definition of fun. Harry and Hermione join us, Hermione looking over me to make sure that I’m not too badly injured.

I brush her off after a few seconds. “Thought Dumbledore said you weren’ allowed inside the school anymore,” says Hagrid, frowning slightly as he gets off the slightly squashed skrewt and starts tugging it over to its fellows.

Rita acts as though she hasn’t heard what Hagrid has said. Someone should really just pop this woman a good one. Okay maybe I do have a slight anger problem.

“What are these fascinating creatures called?” she asks, beaming still more widely.

“Blast-Ended Skrewts,” grunts Hagrid. She has an interest in them this can’t be good.

“Really?” says Rita, apparently full of lively interest. “I’ve never heard of them before . . . where do they come from?”

I notice a dull red flush rising up out of Hagrid’s wild black beard, and my heart sinks. Where did Hagrid get the skrewts from? Hermione, who seems to be thinking along these lines, says quickly, “They’re very interesting, aren’t they? Aren’t they, Harry?”

“What? Oh yeah . . . ouch . . . interesting,” says Harry as she steps on his foot.

“Ah, you’re here, Harry!” says Rita Skeeter as she looks around. “So you like Care of Magical Creatures, do you? One of your favorite lessons?”

“Yes,” says Harry stoutly. Hagrid beams at him. Well at least Hagrid is happy out of all this.

“Lovely,” says Rita. “Really lovely. Been teaching long?” she adds to Hagrid.

I notice her eyes travel over Dean (who has a nasty cut across one cheek), Lavender (whose robes are badly singed), Seamus (who is nursing several burnt fingers), and then to the cabin windows, where most of the class stands, their noses pressed against the glass waiting to see if the coast is clear.

“This is on’y me second year,” says Hagrid. Oh this is not good.

“Lovely . . . I don’t suppose you’d like to give an interview, would you? Share some of your experience of magical creatures? The Prophet does a zoological column every Wednesday, as I’m sure you know. We could feature these — er — Bang-Ended Scoots.”

“Blast-Ended Skrewts,” Hagrid says eagerly. “Er — yeah, why not?”

“No Hagrid. I don’t think that Miss Skeeter is really qualified to be conducting an interview about zoological matters. She’s not qualified for that type of reporting aren’t you Miss Skeeter. Only the society pages for you I’m afraid.” I speak up glaring at the woman heatedly. Rita’s eyes snap to me and I can see the recognition dawn in them.

“Ah Jamie Pendragon… I was wondering when I was going to be seeing you.” She states her voice flat and hard. Yeah you smarmy cockroach I’ve got you right where I want you.

“Well that might be because I was attempting to avoid you.” I quip. Her mouth turns downward into a frown and I can tell that she’s fighting a glare.

“You know I ran into your brother the other day. I asked him a few questions about your rather abrupt change in living situations. What is it going from living with a respectable Auror like Kingsley to living with the overcrowded Weasleys. Tell me Jamie— does it feel like he’s abandoned you?” She asks me sweetly. I clench my hands into fists.

Ron places his hand on my arm to keep me from leaping at her even though he looks like he wants to attack just as much. “One, don’t you speak ill of the Weasleys they are amazing people and Luka and I are lucky to live with them. Two, don’t you dare insinuate that we were abandoned. Kingsley as you said is a very important Auror and his job needed him. He only parted with us so that he could keep us safe.” I state deadly.

At that she twists her face into an unpleasant smile and turns around to Hagrid to schedule a longer interview this week. I growl lowly, and Harry shoots me a look to cut it out. Who knows what will come out in the blasted prophet now?

Then the bell rings up at the castle (finally), signaling the end of the lesson. “Well, good-bye, Harry!” Rita Skeeter calls merrily to him as he sets off with Ron, Hermione, and me. “Until Friday night, then, Hagrid!”

“She’ll twist everything he says,” Harry says under his breath.

“Well Hagrid won’t be the only one just you wait we’ll get a Pendragon special sometime soon.” I grumble.

“Just as long as he didn’t import those skrewts illegally or anything,” says Hermione desperately. We look at one another — it is exactly the sort of thing Hagrid might do.

“Hagrid’s been in loads of trouble before, and Dumbledore’s never sacked him,” says Ron consolingly. “Worst that can happen is Hagrid’ll have to get rid of the skrewts. Sorry . . . did I say worst? I meant best.”

Harry and Hermione laugh (I’m still too stressed), and, feeling slightly more cheerful, go off to lunch.

I thoroughly enjoyed double Divination that afternoon; we are still doing star charts and predictions, but now that Harry and Ron are friends once more, the whole thing seems very funny again. Professor Trelawney, who has been so pleased with the three of us when we had been predicting our own horrific deaths, quickly becomes irritated as we snigger through her explanation of the various ways in which Pluto can disrupt everyday life.

“I would think,” she says, in a mystical whisper that does not conceal her obvious annoyance, “that some of us” — she stares very meaningfully at Harry — “might be a little less frivolous had they seen what I have seen during my crystal gazing last night. As I sat here, absorbed in my needlework, the urge to consult the orb overpowered me. I arose, I settled myself before it, and I gazed into its crystalline depths . . . and what do you think I saw gazing back at me?”

“An ugly old bat in outsize specs?” Ron mutters under his breath.

“Rita Skeeter being squished like a bug?” I hope softly. Harry fights hard to keep his face straight.

“Death, my dears.”

“Close enough.” I sigh. Parvati and Lavender both put their hands over their mouths, looking horrified. I seriously need to get out of this class.

“Yes,” says Professor Trelawney, nodding impressively, “it comes, ever closer, it circles overhead like a vulture, ever lower . . . ever lower over the castle. . . .”

She stares pointedly at Harry, who yawns very widely and obviously. “It’d be a bit more impressive if she hadn’t done it about eighty times before,” Harry says as we finally regain the fresh air of the staircase beneath Professor Trelawney’s room. “But if I’d dropped dead every time she’s told me I’m going to, I’d be a medical miracle.”

“You’d be a sort of extra-concentrated ghost,” says Ron, chortling, as we pass the Bloody Baron going in the opposite direction, his wide eyes staring sinisterly. “At least we didn’t get homework. I hope Hermione got loads off Professor Vector, I love not working when she is. . . .”

“That’s mean Ron.” I state not really bothering to push the subject.

“Oh come now Jamie I know that you like it as well.” He says elbowing me.

But Hermione isn’t at dinner, nor is she in the library when we go to look for her afterwards. The only person in there is Viktor Krum. Ron hovers behind the bookshelves for a while, watching Krum, debating in whispers with Harry and me whether he should ask for an autograph — but then Ron realizes that six or seven girls are lurking in the next row of books, debating exactly the same thing, and he loses his enthusiasm for the idea. I have no idea what is so appealing about him.

“I don’t understand what’s so appealing about him?” I question readjusting my ponytail.

“What’s so great about him? Are you mad? He’s only the great seeker of all time!” Ron squeaks. I raise my eyebrow at him.

“Just because you find Krum attractive doesn’t mean that I have to.” I state. Ron turns as red as a tomato at that. Harry is roaring with laughter now.

“Wonder where she’s got to?” Ron says (after recovering and hitting me) as we go back to Gryffindor Tower.

“Dunno . . . balderdash.” Harry says. But the Fat Lady has barely begun to swing forward when the sound of racing feet behind us announces Hermione’s arrival.

“Harry!” she pants, skidding to a halt beside him (the Fat Lady stares down at her, eyebrows raised). “Harry, you’ve got to come — you’ve got to come, the most amazing thing’s happened — please —”

She seizes Harry’s arm and starts to try to drag him back along the corridor. “What’s the matter?” Harry says.

“I’ll show you when we get there — oh come on, quick —”

“Hermione did you get into the sugar again?” I ask her slightly worried for my friend’s sanity.

Harry looks around at Ron and me; we look back at Harry, intrigued. “Okay,” Harry says, starting off back down the corridor with Hermione, Ron and I hurrying to keep up.

“Oh don’t mind me!” the Fat Lady calls irritably after us. “Don’t apologize for bothering me! I’ll just hang here, wide open, until you get back, shall I?”

“Yeah, thanks!” Ron shouts over his shoulder.

“Hermione, where are we going?” Harry asks, after she has led us down through six floors, and starts down the marble staircase into the entrance hall.

“You’ll see, you’ll see in a minute!” says Hermione excitedly. Realization dawns on me and dread starts to build up. Please let this not be what I think it is.

She turns left at the bottom of the staircase and hurries towards a door. We follow Hermione down a flight of stone steps, but instead of ending up in a gloomy underground passage like the one that leads to Snape’s dungeon, we find ourselves in a broad stone corridor, brightly lit with torches, and decorated with cheerful paintings that were mainly of food.

“Oh hang on . . .” says Harry slowly, halfway down the corridor. “Wait a minute, Hermione. . . .”

“Please no. No, no, no, no, no, no, no.” I chant.

“What?” She turns around to look at us, anticipation all over her face.

“I know what this is about,” says Harry.

He nudge Ron and points to the painting just behind Hermione. It shows a gigantic silver fruit bowl.

“Hermione!” says Ron, cottoning on (finally). “You’re trying to rope us into that spew stuff again!”

“No, no, I’m not!” she says hastily. “And it’s not spew, Ron —”

“Changed the name, have you?” says Ron, frowning at her. “What are we now, then, the House-Elf Liberation Front? I’m not barging into that kitchen and trying to make them stop work, I’m not doing it —”

I have to admit that he comes up with better names than Hermione by a long shot.

“I’m not asking you to!” Hermione says impatiently. “I came down here just now, to talk to them all, and I found — oh come on, Harry, I want to show you!”

She seizes his arm again, pulls him in front of the picture of the giant fruit bowl, stretched out her forefinger, and tickles the huge green pear. It begins to squirm, chuckling, and suddenly turns into a large green door handle. Hermione seizes it, pulls the door open, and pushes Harry hard in the back, forcing him inside. I follow seeing an enormous, high-ceilinged room, large as the Great Hall above it, with mounds of glittering brass pots and pans heaped around the stone walls, and a great brick fireplace at the other end, when something small hurtles towards Harry from the middle of the room, squealing, “Harry Potter, sir! Harry Potter!”

Well I’ll be, I thought we’d seen the last of that elf. Harry’s hit hard in the midriff, hugging him so tightly it looks like his ribs will break.

“D-Dobby?” Harry gasps.

“It is Dobby, sir, it is!” squeals the voice from somewhere around Harry’s navel.  “Dobby has been hoping and hoping to see Harry Potter, sir, and Harry Potter has come to see him, sir!”

Dobby lets go and steps back a few paces, beaming up at Harry, his enormous, green, tennis-ball-shaped eyes brimming with tears of happiness. He looks almost exactly as I remember him; the pencil-shaped nose, the batlike ears, the long fingers and feet — all except the clothes, which are very different.

When Dobby worked for the Malfoys, he was always wearing the same filthy old pillowcase. Now, however, he is wearing the strangest assortment of garments I have ever seen; he has done an even worse job of dressing himself than the wizards at the World Cup. He is wearing a tea cozy for a hat, on which he has pinned a number of bright badges; a tie patterned with horseshoes over a bare chest, a pair of what looks like children’s soccer shorts, and odd socks. One of these, I see, was the black one Harry removed from his own foot and tricked Mr. Malfoy into giving Dobby, thereby setting Dobby free. The other is covered in pink and orange stripes.

“Dobby, what’re you doing here?” Harry asks in amazement.

“Dobby has come to work at Hogwarts, sir!” Dobby squeals excitedly. “Professor Dumbledore gave Dobby and Winky jobs, sir!”

“Winky?” I say. “She’s here too?”

“Yes, yes!” says Dobby, and he seizes Harry’s hand and pulls him off into the kitchen between the four long wooden tables that stood there. We of course follow. Each of these tables, I notice as we pass them, is positioned exactly beneath the four House tables above, in the Great Hall. At the moment, they are clear of food, dinner having finished, but I suppose that an hour ago they were laden with dishes that were then sent up through the ceiling to their counterparts above.

Quite a fascinating system really, Merlin now I’m starting to sound like Hermione. At least a hundred little elves are standing around the kitchen, beaming, bowing, and curtsying as Dobby leads Harry past them. They are all wearing the same uniform: a tea towel stamped with the Hogwarts crest, and tied, as Winky’s had been, like a toga.

Dobby stops in front of the brick fireplace and points. “Winky, sir!” he says.

Winky is sitting on a stool by the fire. Unlike Dobby, she has obviously not foraged for clothes. She is wearing a neat little skirt and blouse with a matching blue hat, which has holes in it for her large ears. However, while every one of Dobby’s strange collection of garments is so clean and well cared for that it looks brand-new, Winky is plainly not taking care of her clothes at all. There are soup stains all down her blouse and a burn in her skirt.

This is quite sad to see. It brings up the memories of Crouch being a bastard. “Hello, Winky,” says Harry.

Winky’s lip quivers. Then she bursts into tears, which spill out of her great brown eyes and splash down her front, just as they had done at the Quidditch World Cup.

“Oh dear,” says Hermione. “Winky, don’t cry, please don’t . . .” But Winky cries harder than ever. Dobby, on the other hand, beams up at Harry.

“Would Harry Potter like a cup of tea?” he squeaks loudly, over Winky’s sobs.

“Er — yeah, okay,” says Harry. Instantly, about six house-elves come trotting up behind us, bearing a large silver tray laden with a teapot, cups for Harry, Ron, Hermione, and me, a milk jug, and a large plate of biscuits.

“Good service!” Ron says, in an impressed voice. I elbow him, and Hermione frowns at him, but the elves all look delighted; they bow very low and retreat.

“How long have you been here, Dobby?” Harry asks as Dobby hands around the tea.

“Only a week, Harry Potter, sir!” says Dobby happily. “Dobby came to see Professor Dumbledore, sir. You see, sir, it is very difficult for a house-elf who has been dismissed to get a new position, sir, very difficult indeed —”

At this, Winky howls even harder, her squashed-tomato of a nose dribbling all down her front, though she makes no effort to stem the flow. I really do feel dreadful for her.

“Dobby has traveled the country for two whole years, sir, trying to find work!” Dobby squeaks. “But Dobby hasn’t found work, sir, because Dobby wants paying now!”

The house-elves all around the kitchen, who have been listening and watching with interest, all look away at these words, as though Dobby said something rude and embarrassing. Hermione, however, says, “Good for you, Dobby!”

“Thank you, miss!” says Dobby, grinning toothily at her. “But most wizards doesn’t want a house-elf who wants paying, miss. ‘That’s not the point of a house-elf,’ they says, and they slammed the door in Dobby’s face! Dobby likes work, but he wants to wear clothes and he wants to be paid, Harry Potter. . . . Dobby likes being free!”

The Hogwarts house-elves have now started edging away from Dobby, as though he is carrying something contagious. Winky, however, remains where she is, though there is a definite increase in the volume of her crying. What do we do?

“And then, Harry Potter, Dobby goes to visit Winky, and finds out Winky has been freed too, sir!” says Dobby delightedly.

Oh Dobby— wrong thing to say. At this, Winky flings herself forwards off her stool and lays facedown on the flagged stone floor, beating her tiny fists upon it and positively screaming with misery. Hermione hastily drops down to her knees beside her and tries to comfort her, but nothing she says makes the slightest difference. Dobby continues with his story, shouting shrilly over Winky’s screeches.

“And then Dobby had the idea, Harry Potter, sir! ‘Why doesn’t Dobby and Winky find work together?’ Dobby says. ‘Where is there enough work for two house-elves?’ says Winky. And Dobby thinks, and it comes to him, sir! Hogwarts! So Dobby and Winky came to see Professor Dumbledore, sir, and Professor Dumbledore took us on!”

Dobby beams very brightly, and happy tears well in his eyes again. I’m glad for Dobby and all but it seems like Winky is going to kill herself by the look of things. Hermione shoots me a desperate look but I shrug my shoulders desperately. I’m not good at comforting others!

“And Professor Dumbledore says he will pay Dobby, sir, if Dobby wants paying! And so Dobby is a free elf, sir, and Dobby gets a Galleon a week and one day off a month!”

“That’s not very much!” Hermione shouts indignantly from the floor, over Winky’s continued screaming and fist-beating.

“Professor Dumbledore offered Dobby ten Galleons a week, and weekends off,” says Dobby, suddenly giving a little shiver, as though the prospect of so much leisure and riches are frightening, “but Dobby beat him down, miss. . . . Dobby likes freedom, miss, but he isn’t wanting too much, miss, he likes work better.”

“And how much is Professor Dumbledore paying you, Winky?” Hermione asks kindly. Oh Hermione why can’t you just leave this alone?

If she thought this would cheer up Winky, she is wildly mistaken. Winky does stop crying, but when she sits up she is glaring at Hermione through her massive brown eyes, her whole face sopping wet and suddenly furious.

“Winky is a disgraced elf, but Winky is not yet getting paid!” she squeaks. “Winky is not sunk so low as that! Winky is properly ashamed of being freed!”

“Ashamed?” says Hermione blankly. “But — Winky, come on! It’s Mr. Crouch who should be ashamed, not you! You didn’t do anything wrong, he was really horrible to you —”

But at these words, Winky claps her hands over the holes in her hat, flattening her ears so that she can’t hear a word, and screeches, “You is not insulting my master, miss! You is not insulting Mr. Crouch! Mr. Crouch is a good wizard, miss! Mr. Crouch is right to sack bad Winky!”

“Winky is having trouble adjusting, Harry Potter,” squeaks Dobby confidentially.  “Winky forgets she is not bound to Mr. Crouch anymore; she is allowed to speak her mind now, but she won’t do it.”

“Can’t house-elves speak their minds about their masters, then?” Harry asks.

“No.” I say simply.

“Oh no, sir, no,” says Dobby, looking suddenly serious. “’Tis part of the house-elf’s enslavement, sir. We keeps their secrets and our silence, sir. We upholds the family’s honor, and we never speaks ill of them — though Professor Dumbledore told Dobby he does not insist upon this. Professor Dumbledore said we is free to — to —”

Dobby looks suddenly nervous and beckons us closer. We bend forward. Dobby whispers, “He said we is free to call him a — a barmy old codger if we likes, sir!”

Dobby gives a frightened sort of giggle.

“But Dobby is not wanting to, Harry Potter,” he says, talking normally again, and shaking his head so that his ears flap. “Dobby likes Professor Dumbledore very much, sir, and is proud to keep his secrets and our silence for him.”

“But you can say what you like about the Malfoys now?” Harry asks him, grinning.

A slightly fearful look comes into Dobby’s immense eyes.

“Dobby — Dobby could,” he says doubtfully. He squares his small shoulders.  “Dobby could tell Harry Potter that his old masters were — were — bad Dark wizards!”

Okay not really shocked there, but that is rather worrying. Dobby stands for a moment, quivering all over, horror-struck by his own daring — then he rushes over to the nearest table and begins banging his head on it very hard, squealing, “Bad Dobby! Bad Dobby!”

Harry seizes Dobby by the back of his tie and pulls him away from the table. “Thank you, Harry Potter, thank you,” says Dobby breathlessly, rubbing his head.

“You just need a bit of practice,” Harry says.

“Practice!” squeals Winky furiously. “You is ought to be ashamed of yourself, Dobby, talking that way about your masters!”

“They isn’t my masters anymore, Winky!” says Dobby defiantly. “Dobby doesn’t care what they think anymore!”

I find myself immensely proud of the small house-elf. I have a feeling that he will change stuff one of these days.

“Oh you is a bad elf, Dobby!” moans Winky, tears leaking down her face once more. “My poor Mr. Crouch, what is he doing without Winky? He is needing me, he is needing my help! I is looking after the Crouches all my life, and my mother is doing it before me, and my grandmother is doing it before her . . . oh what is they saying if they knew Winky was freed? Oh the shame, the shame!” She buries her face in her skirt again and bawls.

“Winky,” says Hermione firmly, “I’m quite sure Mr. Crouch is getting along perfectly well without you. We’ve seen him, you know —”

“You is seeing my master?” says Winky breathlessly, raising her tearstained face out of her skirt once more and goggling at Hermione. “You is seeing him here at Hogwarts?”

“Yes,” says Hermione, “he and Mr. Bagman are judges in the Triwizard Tournament.”

“Mr. Bagman comes too?” squeaks Winky, and to my great surprise (and Ron’s, Harry’s, and Hermione’s too, by the looks on their faces), she looks angry again. “Mr. Bagman is a bad wizard! A very bad wizard! My master isn’t liking him, oh no, not at all!”

“Bagman — bad?” I ask quizzically.

“Oh yes,” Winky says, nodding her head furiously. “My master is telling Winky some things! But Winky is not saying . . . Winky — Winky keeps her master’s secrets. . . .”

She dissolves yet again in tears; we can hear her sobbing into her skirt, “Poor master, poor master, no Winky to help him no more!”

We can’t get another sensible word out of Winky. We leave her to her crying and finish our tea (Hermione looking none too happy), while Dobby chats happily about his life as a free elf and his plans for his wages.

“Dobby is going to buy a sweater next, Harry Potter!” he says happily, pointing at his bare chest.

“Tell you what, Dobby,” says Ron, who seems to have taken a great liking to the elf, “I’ll give you the one my mum knits me this Christmas, I always get one from her. You don’t mind maroon, do you?” I roll my eyes at this. Mrs. Weasley is going to kill him.

Dobby is delighted though. “We might have to shrink it a bit to fit you,” Ron tells him, “but it’ll go well with your tea cozy.”

As we prepare to take our leave, many of the surrounding elves press in upon us, offering snacks to take back upstairs. Hermione refuses, with a pained look at the way the elves keep bowing and curtsying, but Harry and Ron load their pockets with cream cakes and pies. I only take one small pumpkin pie since I can’t resist.

“Thanks a lot!” Harry says to the elves, who have all clustered around the door to say good night. “See you, Dobby!”

“Harry Potter . . . can Dobby come and see you sometimes, sir?” Dobby asks tentatively.

“’Course you can,” says Harry, and Dobby beams. I do really like that Harry is so nice to Dobby. Most people wouldn’t give house-elves the time of day but he does. Then again, Harry isn’t most people.

“You know what?” says Ron, once he, Hermione, Harry, and I have left the kitchens behind and are climbing the steps into the entrance hall again. “All these years I’ve been really impressed with Fred and George, nicking food from the kitchens — well, it’s not exactly difficult, is it? They can’t wait to give it away!”

“I know I was shocked too the first time.” I say flippantly. Everyone stops and looks at me with wide eyes. I heave a sigh and brush some hair out of my eyes.

“You’ve been there before, and you didn’t tell us!” Ron and Harry cry together. I shrug my shoulders and shift my weight nervously.

“Well I was with Fred and George you see. I didn’t exactly know if I was allowed to tell you. I’m honestly surprised that they told Hermione.” I say shocked.

“You still should have told us… think of all the food that we’ve missed out on.” Ron moans. I give them a sheepish smile, and all is forgotten except for the annoyed look on Hermione’s face.

“I think this is the best thing that could have happened to those elves, you know,” says Hermione, leading the way back up the marble staircase. “Dobby coming to work here, I mean. The other elves will see how happy he is, being free, and slowly it’ll dawn on them that they want that too!”

“Let’s hope they don’t look too closely at Winky,” says Harry.

“Oh she’ll cheer up,” says Hermione, though she sounds a bit doubtful. “Once the shock’s worn off, and she’s got used to Hogwarts, she’ll see how much better off she is without that Crouch man.”

“She seems to love him,” says Ron thickly (he has just started on a cream cake).

“Doesn’t think much of Bagman, though, does she?” says Harry. “Wonder what Crouch says at home about him?”

“Probably says he’s not a very good Head of Department,” I say, “and let’s face it . . . he’s got a point, hasn’t he?”

“I’d still rather work for him than old Crouch,” says Ron. “At least Bagman’s got a sense of humor.”

“Don’t let Percy hear you saying that,” Hermione says, smiling slightly.

“Yeah, well, Percy wouldn’t want to work for anyone with a sense of humor, would he?” says Ron, now starting on a chocolate eclair. “Percy wouldn’t recognize a joke if it danced naked in front of him wearing Dobby’s tea cozy.”

“No he wouldn’t, lets just hope he never makes it to Minister of Magic or fun will probably become outlawed.” I mutter. That would be a very sad day.


	19. The Unexpected Task

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything you recognize is J.K. Rowling's. Except Jamie, Luka, and Ariana.

Chapter 19-The Unexpected Task

 

“Potter! Weasley! Pendragon! Will you pay attention?” Professor McGonagall’s irritated voice cracks like a whip through the Transfiguration class on Thursday, and Harry, Ron and I jump and look up.

It is the end of the lesson; we have finished our work; the guinea fowl we have been changing into guinea pigs has been shut away in a large cage on Professor McGonagall’s desk (Neville’s still has feathers); we have copied down our homework from the blackboard (“Describe, with examples, the ways in which Transforming Spells must be adapted when performing Cross-Species Switches”).  The bell is due to ring at any moment, and we, have been having a sword fight with a couple of Fred and George’s fake wands at the back of the class, looking up, Ron holding a tin parrot, Harry, a rubber haddock, and me with what looks to be an elongated candy cane.

“Now that Potter, Weasley, and Pendragon have been kind enough to act their age,” says Professor McGonagall, with an angry look at the three of us as the head of Harry’s haddock droops and falls silently to the floor — Ron’s parrot’s beak severed it moments before — “I have something to say to you all.”

“The Yule Ball is approaching — a traditional part of the Triwizard Tournament and an opportunity for us to socialize with our foreign guests. Now, the ball will be open only to fourth years and above — although you may invite a younger student if you wish —”

Oh you have got to be kidding me a ball! I really hate those things. The only good thing to come out of it is the dancing.

Lavender Brown lets out a shrill giggle. Parvati Patil nudges her hard in the ribs, her face working furiously as she too fights not to giggle. They both look around at Harry. Professor McGonagall ignores them. Merlin save Harry.

“Dress robes will be worn,” Professor McGonagall continues, “and the ball will start at eight o’clock on Christmas Day, finishing at midnight in the Great Hall. Now then —”

Professor McGonagall stares deliberately around the class. “The Yule Ball is of course a chance for us all to — er — let our hair down,” she says, in a disapproving voice.

Lavender giggles harder than ever, with her hand pressed hard against her mouth to stifle the sound. Someone really has to smack her soon. I can see what is funny this time: Professor McGonagall, with her hair in a tight bun, looks as though she has never let her hair down in any sense.

“But that does NOT mean,” Professor McGonagall goes on, “that we will be relaxing the standards of behavior we expect from Hogwarts students. I will be most seriously displeased if a Gryffindor student embarrasses the school in any way.”

The bell rings, and there is the usual scuffle of activity as everyone packs their bags and swings them onto their shoulders.

Professor McGonagall calls above the noise, “Potter — a word, if you please.” Ron and I follow Hermione out the door to wait in the hall for Harry.

“Great another ball.” I say flatly. Hermione’s cheeks are the slightest bit pink from thinking about it. I can see that she really wants to go. Ron looks like someone had just given him his death sentence though.

“Is that why mum gave me those hideous robes?” Ron asks looking ashen. Just the memory of those robes is enough to send me into a gale of giggles. God those were awful. He glares at me and tries to hit me but I dance out of the way grinning.

“Will you two stop acting like children for a moment! This is huge news, our first real step into adulthood!” She cries. I grimace when she puts it that way.

“Mione— there is nothing about balls that scream adulthood. Luka and I attended our first one when we were six now are six-year-olds very adult like? I can promise you the pie war that we had was very childish indeed.” I say with a smirk.

Hermione huffs and crosses her arms, but I smile victoriously. I don’t understand why everyone is so intent on growing up. I don’t think that it is such a bad thing being young.

Harry comes out of the classroom white as a sheet and sweating. “What’s wrong Harry?” Hermione asks him quickly.

“I… I have to get a partner for the ball— and I have to dance in front of everyone.” He says shakily. After a moment I can’t help myself. I burst into peals of laughter imagining my friend dancing. Oh this is too good to be true!

* * *

A lot of kids are staying at Hogwarts for Christmas this year. I’m kind of disappointed with that really. I like having the castle to myself for a while—its peaceful that way.

This year, however, everyone in the fourth year and above seems to be staying, and they all seem to me to be obsessed with the coming ball — or at least all the girls are, and it is amazing how many girls Hogwarts suddenly seem to hold; I have never quite noticed that before. Girls giggling and whispering in the corridors, girls shrieking with laughter as boys pass them, girls excitedly comparing notes on what they are going to wear on Christmas night. . . .

In other words I’m completely out of my depths and partially petrified even though I’m supposedly a girl myself. Since when have I been known to do very girly acts?

“Why do they have to move in packs?” Harry asks Ron and me as a dozen or so girls walk past us, sniggering and staring at Harry. “How’re you supposed to get one on their own to ask them?”

“Lasso one?” Ron suggests. “Got any idea who you’re going to try?” I know exactly who Harry would like to ask (Cho Chang).

“Come on Jamie you’re a girl how do we ask them?” Ron says spinning towards me. I guess that they’ve finally seemed to notice that I am indeed a girl.

“Well… I’m no expert but I’d expect it to go something like this,” I clear my throat, and stick out my hand, “Hello there I’m Harry Potter, would you go to the ball with me?” I say grinning at the end.

Harry and Ron scowl not liking my perfectly reasonable approach to asking a girl out to the ball. Boys I don’t understand them at all. I huff seeing as they’re probably not going to take my advice on this.

“Listen, you’re not going to have any trouble. You’re a champion. You’ve just beaten a Hungarian Horntail. I bet they’ll be queuing up to go with you.” Ron says. As it turns out, Ron is quite right.

A curly-haired third-year Hufflepuff girl to whom Harry has never spoken in his life asks him to go to the ball with her the very next day. Harry is so taken aback he says no before he’d even stopped to consider the matter. The girl walks off looking rather hurt, and Harry has to endure Dean’s, Seamus’s, and Ron’s taunts about her all through History of Magic. I chose to give my friend a break. The following day, two more girls ask him, a second year and (to his horror) a fifth year who looks as though she might knock him out if he refuses.

“She was quite good-looking,” says Ron fairly, after he’s stopped laughing.

“She was a foot taller than me,” says Harry, still unnerved. “Imagine what I’d look like trying to dance with her.” I couldn’t help but chuckle at the mental image that gave me.

Things have been going better for Harry as well since the first task. He’s been having an easier time of it since people are starting to support him more. Thankfully as well no story has yet to come about Hagrid, but I know that beetle is just biding her time on a Pendragon story. Unfortunately my family is too much of a commodity not to write about.

“She didn’ seem very int’rested in magical creatures, ter tell yeh the truth,” Hagrid says, when Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I ask him how his interview with Rita Skeeter went during the last Care of Magical Creatures lesson of the term. To our very great relief, Hagrid had given up on direct contact with the skrewts now, and they are merely sheltering behind his cabin today, sitting at a trestle table and preparing a fresh selection of food with which to tempt the skrewts.

So no more risking of life and limb for us thankfully. “She jus’ wanted me ter talk about you, Harry,” Hagrid continues in a low voice. “Well, I told her we’d been friends since I went ter fetch yeh from the Dursleys. ‘Never had to tell him off in four years?’ she said. ‘Never played you up in lessons, has he?’ I told her no, an’ she didn’ seem happy at all. Yeh’d think she wanted me to say yeh were horrible, Harry.”

“’Course she did,” says Harry, throwing lumps of dragon liver into a large metal bowl and picking up his knife to cut some more. “She can’t keep writing about what a tragic little hero I am, it’ll get boring.”

I nod my head and grimace. I hate that we have to put up with Rita Skeeter they literally could have picked anyone else and it would be better.

“She wants a new angle, Hagrid,” says Ron wisely as he shells salamander eggs. “You were supposed to say Harry’s a mad delinquent!”

“But he’s not!” says Hagrid, looking genuinely shocked.

“She should’ve interviewed Snape,” says Harry grimly. “He’d give her the goods on me any day. ‘Potter has been crossing lines ever since he first arrived at this school. . . .’”

“Said that, did he?” says Hagrid, while Ron, Hermione, and I laugh. “Well, yeh might’ve bent a few rules, Harry, bu’ yeh’re all righ’ really, aren’ you?”

“Cheers, Hagrid,” says Harry, grinning.

“You coming to this ball thing on Christmas Day, Hagrid?” I ask Hagrid.

“Though’ I might look in on it, yeah,” says Hagrid gruffly. “Should be a good do, I reckon. You’ll be openin’ the dancin’, won’ yeh, Harry? Who’re you takin’?”

“No one, yet,” says Harry, going red again. Hagrid doesn’t pursue the subject though.

The last week of term becomes increasingly boisterous as it progresses. Rumors about the Yule Ball are flying everywhere, though I don’t believe half of them — for instance, that Dumbledore has bought eight hundred barrels of mulled mead from Madam Rosmerta. It seems to be fact, however, that he has booked the Weird Sisters a very famous musical group. I was in fact quite excited to have them coming.

Some of the teachers, like little Professor Flitwick, give up trying to teach us much when our minds are so clearly elsewhere; he allows us to play games in his lesson on Wednesday, I send most of my time enchanting little paper snowmen to juggle themselves. Other teachers are not so generous. Nothing will ever deflect Professor Binns, for example, from plowing on through his notes on goblin rebellions — as Binns hasn’t let his own death stand in the way of continuing to teach, we suppose a small thing like Christmas isn’t going to put him off.

It is amazing how he can make even bloody and vicious goblin riots sound as boring as Percy’s cauldron-bottom report. Professors McGonagall and Moody keep us working until the very last second of our classes too, and Snape, of course, would no sooner let us play games in class than adopt Harry. Staring nastily around at us all, he informs us that he will be testing us on poison antidotes during the last lesson of the term.

Well Merry Christmas to no one. “Evil, he is,” Ron says bitterly that night in the Gryffindor common room. “Springing a test on us on the last day. Ruining the last bit of term with a whole load of studying.”

“Mmm . . . you’re not exactly straining yourself, though, are you?” says Hermione, looking at him over the top of her Potions notes. Ron is busy building a card castle out of his Exploding Snap pack — a much more interesting pastime than with Muggle cards, because of the chance that the whole thing will blow up at any second.

“It’s Christmas, Hermione,” says Harry lazily; he is rereading Flying with the Cannons for the tenth time in an armchair near the fire. I am playing with my charmed paper army. I’m putting the finishing touches on my little paper Snape dressed up like a muggle’s version of an elf Harry showed me. The scowl drawn on his face seems to grow deeper on its own.

Hermione looks severely over at him too. “I’d have thought you’d be doing something constructive, Harry, even if you don’t want to learn your antidotes!”

“Like what?” Harry says still focused on his book.

“That egg!” Hermione hisses.

“Come on, Hermione, I’ve got till February the twenty-fourth,” Harry says. He put the golden egg upstairs in his trunk and hasn’t opened it since the celebration party after the first task. There are still two and a half months to go until he needs to know what all the screechy wailing means, after all.

“But it might take weeks to work it out!” says Hermione. “You’re going to look a real idiot if everyone else knows what the next task is and you don’t!”

“Leave him alone, Hermione, he’s earned a bit of a break,” says Ron, and he places the last two cards on top of the castle and the whole lot blows up, singeing his eyebrows.

“Nice look, Ron . . . go well with your dress robes, that will.” It is Fred and George. They sit down at the table with Harry, Ron, Hermione, and me as Ron feels how much damage has been done.

“Ron, can we borrow Pigwidgeon?” George asks.

“No, he’s off delivering a letter,” says Ron. “Why?”

“Because George wants to invite him to the ball,” says Fred sarcastically.

“Because we want to send a letter, you stupid great prat,” says George.

“Who d’you two keep writing to, eh?” asks Ron.

“Nose out, Ron, or I’ll burn that for you too,” says Fred, waving his wand threateningly. “So . . . you lot got dates for the ball yet?”

“Nope,” says Ron.

“Well, you’d better hurry up, mate, or all the good ones will be gone,” says Fred.

“Who’re you going with, then?” says Ron.

“Angelina,” says Fred promptly, without a trace of embarrassment.

“What?” says Ron, taken aback. “You’ve already asked her?”

“Good point,” says Fred. He turns his head and calls across the common room, “Oi! Angelina!”

Angelina, who has been chatting with Alicia Spinnet near the fire, looks over at him.

“What?” she calls back.

“Want to come to the ball with me?” Angelina gives Fred an appraising sort of look.

“All right, then,” she says, and she turns back to Alicia and carries on chatting with a bit of a grin on her face. Good I’ve always known that Angelina has had a sort of thing for him for a long while now.

“There you go,” says Fred to Harry and Ron, “piece of cake.” He gets to his feet, yawning, and says, “We’d better use a school owl then, George, come on. . . .”

They leave. Ron stops feeling his eyebrows and looks across the smoldering wreck of his card castle at Harry.

“We should get a move on, you know . . . ask someone. He’s right. We don’t want to end up with a pair of trolls.”

Hermione lets out a sputter of indignation and I raise my eye brows at them. “A pair of . . . what, excuse me?”

“Well — you know,” says Ron, shrugging. “I’d rather go alone than with — with Eloise Midgen, say.”

“Her acne’s loads better lately — and she’s really nice!”

“Her nose is off-center,” says Ron.

“That’s mean Ron.” I say disappointed in him.

“Oh I see,” Hermione says, bristling. “So basically, you’re going to take the best-looking girl who’ll have you, even if she’s completely horrible?”

“Er — yeah, that sounds about right,” says Ron.

“I’m going to bed,” Hermione snaps, and she sweeps off towards the girls’ staircase without another word.

“What’d I do?” Ron cries. I roll my eyes at him.

“You were a right prat that’s what.” I state firmly. We’re silent for a while before Harry turns to me.

“Hey Jamie, do you have a date for the ball yet?” He asks me. I raise my eyebrow again at the question.

“No, but then again I don’t really want to go in the first place. People have asked but I tell them I’m going stag.” I respond carefully. Harry bites his lip and nods.

“Well then what do you say about going with me? It’ll be as friends of course but that way we can suffer together.” Harry tells me as Ron watches on with an open mouth.

I chuckle softly at him. “No Harry, you don’t want to go with me. I know that you want to ask Cho. I’m not going to be the reason that you back out of asking her.” I tell him watching him deflate.

“But— if that doesn’t work out then yes Harry, I will go to the ball with you as a friend,” I stress, “as long as you don’t step on my toes when we dance.” I tell him with a smile. Harry grins back at me as I gather up my paper army.

“Good luck boys but I’m heading to bed.” I tell them crossing the common room and starting up for bed.

* * *

 

The Hogwarts staff, demonstrating a continued desire to impress the visitors from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang, seem determined to show the castle at its best this Christmas. When the decorations go up, I notice that they are the most stunning I have yet seen inside the school. Everlasting icicles have been attached to the banisters of the marble staircase; the usual twelve Christmas trees in the Great Hall are bedecked with everything from luminous holly berries to real, hooting, golden owls, and the suits of armor have all been bewitched to sing carols whenever anyone passes them. It is quite something to hear “O Come, All Ye Faithful” sung by an empty helmet that only knows half the words. Several times, Filch the caretaker has to extract Peeves from inside the armor, where he has taken to hiding, filling in the gaps in the songs with lyrics of his own invention, all of which are very rude.

I think that it is brilliant of course. I love Hogwarts at Christmas. I don’t know what I’m going to do without it when I graduate.

And still, Harry hasn’t asked Cho to the ball. He and Ron are getting very nervous now, though as Harry points out, Ron will look much less stupid than he will without a partner; Harry is supposed to be starting the dancing with the other champions.

“I suppose there’s always Moaning Myrtle,” he says gloomily, referring to the ghost who haunts the girls’ toilets on the second floor.

“Harry — we’ve just got to grit our teeth and do it,” says Ron on Friday morning, in a tone that suggested they were planning the storming of an impregnable fortress. “When we get back to the common room tonight, we’ll both have partners — agreed?”

“Er . . . okay,” says Harry. I sigh as I watch the two boys leave. For some reason I have a feeling that this all is going to end very badly.

Harry is distracted all day. I guess that is understandable though I don’t understand what’s so hard about it. Harry asked me the other night, but I guess that it’s different when you’re asking a friend.

When we’re done with Potions class Harry says that he’ll meet us at dinner. The three of us stare after him. “You think he’s going to do it?” Ron asks.

“Three sickles he does.” I say.

“You’re on.” Ron says smacking my hand. Hermione just rolls her eyes at the two of us.

As we make out way to the Great Hall I fall back so that I can talk to Hermione. “So have you been asked yet? I know I’ve been a lousy friend but balls— they make me nervous.” I say softly. Hermione casts her eyes over to me.

“That’s all right Jamie. I’m not exactly the biggest fan of balls either but I think that its going to be rather exciting. And…” She starts but stops when Ron falls back to see what we’re talking about.

I’m partially irritated for I’m sure that she was going to spill on who has asked her. Ron eats dinner rather quickly saying that he’s off to go and do something. I assume ask a girl out. Hermione and I share bemused looks over the table and finish our meal. I decide to let Hermione keep her secret for a little while longer since it seems like a good one.

Hermione excuses herself saying that she’d see me later so I’m left walking up the common room by myself. Halfway there I bump into my brother. He looks rather haggard.

“Hey Luka.” I say. He freezes and turns around to look at me.

“Oh, hey Jame. What’s going on?” He asks me. I shrug my shoulders and lean against the banister.

“Nothing much, everyone’s just going crazy over this Yule Ball though.” I tell him. Luka snorts and shakes his head.

“I know everyone seems to want to go to the ball with me for if they can’t have a champion they can have a Pendragon instead. So in the interests of keeping both of our sanity Ariana and I have decided to go together so as to not be the target of any more unwanted attention.” Luka tells me. A pang of displeasure hits me suddenly, and I frown wondering where it’s coming from.

“Good— I’m happy for you two.” I say forcing the best smile I can onto my face.

“Yeah well what about you, I’ve seen you reject guys left and right. Are you going with anyone?” He asks me. I blow out a breath of air and groan.

“I was planning on going stag that way I wouldn’t have to bother, but Harry ended up asking me.” I say. Luka’s eyes widen and he gives me an incredulous look.

“Jamie— after all that’s happened I would have thought…” Luka says but I cut him off.

“As friends of course. I said no and made him ask Cho Chang but if that doesn’t work out I agreed to go with him anyway. He has to have a partner so that he can do some sort of dance at the beginning. I’m more afraid for my toes than anything.” I tell him.

Luka sighs and lets out a low chuckle readjusting his glasses. “Well then it seems like we’ll be in good company at least for this event. If all else fails though we can always start a food war. Many of the purebloods can account for that.” Luka grins.

I snicker and bump my brother’s shoulder playfully. “I was kinda hoping to get out of another ball you know.” I tell him.

He snorts at that. “Jamie we are Pendragons we will always be going to balls especially when we’re older. Don’t you think for one moment that I won’t drag you along with me.” He threatens. I scowl at him.

“Now I remember why I don’t talk to you more. You’re mean.” I pout. Luka laughs and starts for the Ravenclaw tower.

“Goodnight Jamie!” He calls.

“Night you prat!” I call after him. With that I climb back to the portrait hole and say fairy lights to the Fat Lady. She nods her head and swings open so that I can climb in. I run into Harry in the common room. He’s looking over at the far corner of the room.

I see Ron sitting ashen-faced in a distant corner. Ginny is sitting with him, talking to him in what seems to be a low, soothing voice.

“What’s up, Ron?” says Harry, joining them, me a step behind him. Ron looks up at Harry, a sort of blind horror in his face.

“Why did I do it?” he says wildly. “I don’t know what made me do it!”

“What?” says Harry.

“He — er — just asked Fleur Delacour to go to the ball with him,” says Ginny. She looks as though she is fighting back a smile, but she keeps patting Ron’s arm sympathetically. I can’t believe that he did that. I have to admit that Ron has more guts than I thought he did.

“You what?” says Harry.

“I don’t know what made me do it!” Ron gasps again. “What was I playing at? There were people — all around — I’ve gone mad — everyone watching! I was just walking past her in the entrance hall — she was standing there talking to Diggory — and it sort of came over me — and I asked her!”

Ron moans and puts his face in his hands. He keeps talking, though the words are barely distinguishable.

“She looked at me like I was a sea slug or something. Didn’t even answer. And then — I dunno — I just sort of came to my senses and ran for it.”

Wow. I didn’t know that asking people to go to a ball could be so hard.

“She’s part veela,” says Harry. “You were right — her grandmother was one. It wasn’t your fault, I bet you just walked past when she was turning on the old charm for Diggory and got a blast of it — but she was wasting her time. He’s going with Cho Chang.”

Ron looks up. Oh well that sucks. “I asked her to go with me just now,” Harry says dully, “and she told me.”

Ginny has suddenly stopped smiling. “This is mad,” says Ron. “We’re the only ones left who haven’t got anyone — well, except Neville. Hey — guess who he asked? Hermione!”

“What?” says Harry, completely distracted by this startling news. Neville? I don’t think that Hermione would go with him would she?

“Yeah, I know!” says Ron, some of the color coming back into his face as he starts to laugh. “He told me after Potions! Said she’s always been really nice, helping him out with work and stuff — but she told him she was already going with someone. Ha! As if! She just didn’t want to go with Neville . . . I mean, who would?”

“Don’t!” says Ginny, annoyed. “Don’t laugh —”

“Come on guys. Don’t pick on Neville.” I groan. Just then Hermione climbs in through the portrait hole.

“Hey what are you guys doing?” She asks coming over to us.

“Oh shut up laughing, you two — they’ve both just been turned down by girls they asked to the ball!” says Ginny. That shuts Harry and Ron up.

“Thanks a bunch, Ginny,” says Ron sourly.

“All the good-looking ones taken, Ron?” says Hermione loftily. “Eloise Midgen starting to look quite pretty now, is she? Well, I’m sure you’ll find someone somewhere who’ll have you.”

But Ron is staring at Hermione as though suddenly seeing her in a whole new light. “Hermione, Neville’s right — you are a girl. . . .”

“Oh well spotted,” she says acidly. Oh please let this not be going where I think that it is.

“Well — you can come with one of us!”

“No, I can’t,” snaps Hermione.

“Oh come on,” he says impatiently, “we need partners, we’re going to look really stupid if we haven’t got any, everyone else has . . .”

“Well actually since Cho said no Jamie are you still okay to go with me? Totally friends mind you.” Harry tells me holding his hands up. I sigh and glance around. Ginny is avoiding my eyes. Damn I thought that crush of hers was gone.

“I did promise but are so sure there’s no one else you want to ask?” I ask him. Harry shakes his head.

“Fine Potter, but don’t make me regret this.” I tell him. Harry beams at me and hugs me tightly before letting out.

“You’re a life saver Jamie.” He cries. With that we turn back to the brewing argument.

“I can’t come with you,” says Hermione, now blushing, “because I’m already going with someone.”

“No, you’re not!” says Ron. “You just said that to get rid of Neville!”

“Oh did I?” says Hermione, and her eyes flash dangerously. “Just because it’s taken you three years to notice, Ron, doesn’t mean no one else has spotted I’m a girl!” Ron stares at her. Then he grins again.

“Okay, okay, we know you’re a girl,” he says. “That do? Will you come now?”

I’m about ready to punch him.

“I’ve already told you!” Hermione says very angrily. “I’m going with someone else!” And she storms off toward the girls’ dormitories again.

“She’s lying,” says Ron flatly, watching her go.

“She’s not,” says Ginny quietly.

“Who is it then?” says Ron sharply.

“I’m not telling you, it’s her business,” says Ginny.

“Right,” says Ron, who looks extremely put out, “this is getting stupid. Ginny are you going?”

“I’m going with — with Neville. He asked me when Hermione said no, and I thought . . . well . . . I’m not going to be able to go otherwise, I’m not in fourth year.” She looks extremely miserable. “I think I’ll go and have dinner,” she says, and she gets up and walks off to the portrait hole, her head bowed.

I turn and hurry after her. “Gin!” I say catching her arm. When she turns to face me she has tears in her eyes.

“I’m sorry Gin I didn’t think that you liked Harry anymore.” I say softly. She shakes her head and leans into me slightly as I wrap my arm around her.

“It’s okay Jame— he sees you as his best friend. Of course he’d ask you. He just doesn’t see me though.” She sniffles. I let out a sigh.

“Look it’s his own fault then for you’re an amazing girl, and Harry would be lucky to have you. Let me tell you one thing that I’ve learned about boys from all the time I spend around them.” I say.

“What?” She asks wiping her eyes.

“They’re idiots when it comes to relationships. Don’t worry about it so much, and if the time comes then good but if not, just go with someone else who can see what an amazing girl you are.” I tell her. Ginny pulls away and looks up at me with a small smile.

“Okay I’m going to go eat now.” She tells me and we part ways. I go back up to my dorm and see Hermione angrily throwing her books about.

“He’s a prat.” I state firmly sitting down on her bed. Hermione turns towards me a glare on her face.

“Who does he think he is? Of course I’m a girl it shouldn’t take him practically a month to realize that!” She hisses. My eyes widen at the tone of her voice.

“Mione... are you sure that there’s not something else going on?” I ask her hesitantly. She stops dead and levels me with a glare good enough to be Mrs. Weasley’s.

“Don’t you even think about going there with me Jamie Pendragon, not when you’re in denial about how you feel as well!” She snaps at me. I bite down on my lower lip suddenly worried about what Hermione thinks that she knows. I don’t even known what she thinks she knows.

“Okay… so who are you going with?” I ask her softly not looking her in the eye. There’s a shift on the bed as she sits down beside me and places her head against my shoulder.

“Viktor Krum. He asked me out in the library. Apparently he was going there all the time to see me.” She says. I raise my eyebrows in shock. “I know, who would have thought that he would like me.” She says apparently still shocked herself.

“Well I would for one. You’re a brilliant girl Mione and anyone would be lucky to have you ask their date.” I tell her softly. She chuckles and releases a sigh.

“So are you still going stag to the ball?” She asks me. It’s now my turn to sigh.

“Harry asked me to go as friends and I said yes.” I admit. Hermione sucks in a breath of air.

“Ginny?” She questions.

“Will be okay in time. She knows I don’t like him.” I reply.

“Well this has been quite the night hasn’t it?” Hermione says. I scoff and nod my head as well. Growing older sucks.


	20. The Yule Ball

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything you recognize is J.K. Rowling's. Except Jamie, Luka, and Ariana.

Chapter 20-The Yule Ball

 

Despite the very heavy load of homework that the fourth years have been given for the holidays, I am in no mood to work when term ends, and spend the week leading up to Christmas enjoying myself as fully as possible along with everyone else. Gryffindor Tower is hardly less crowded now than during term-time; it seems to have shrunk slightly too, as its inhabitants are rowdier than usual. Fred and George are having a great success with their Canary Creams, and for the first couple of days of the holidays, people keep bursting into feather all over the place.

Before long, however, all the Gryffindors learn to treat food anybody else offers them with extreme caution, in case it has a Canary Cream concealed in the center, and George confides to me that he and Fred are now working on developing something else. I make a mental note never to accept so much as a crisp from Fred and George in future. I might help make the pranks, but that doesn’t mean that I have escaped any sort of target on my back.

Snow is falling thickly upon the castle and its grounds now. The pale blue Beauxbatons carriage looks like a large, chilly, frosted pumpkin next to the iced gingerbread house that is Hagrid’s cabin, while the Durmstrang ship’s portholes are glazed with ice, the rigging white with frost. The house-elves down in the kitchen are outdoing themselves with a series of rich, warming stews and savory puddings, and only Fleur Delacour seems to be able to find anything to complain about.

“It is too ’eavy, all zis ’Ogwarts food,” we hear her saying grumpily as we leave the Great Hall behind her one evening (Ron skulking behind Harry, keen not to be spotted by Fleur). “I will not fit into my dress robes!”

“Oooh there’s a tragedy,” Hermione snaps as Fleur goes out into the entrance hall. “She really thinks a lot of herself, that one, doesn’t she?”

“We can start calling her Veela the vain.” I snicker, quite proud of myself coming up with that on the spot. Yeah, it’s been a slow week for me. Hermione grins, and Harry hides a smile behind his robes.

“Hermione — who are you going to the ball with?” says Ron. He keeps springing this question on her, hoping to startle her into a response by asking it when she least expects it. However, Hermione merely frowns and says, “I’m not telling you, you’ll just make fun of me.”

“You’re joking, Weasley!” says Malfoy, behind them. “You’re not telling me someone’s asked that to the ball? Not the long-molared Mudblood?”

I squeeze my hands into fists attempting to stop myself from decking Malfoy in front of the entire Great Hall and guests. That’s bound for more than a few detentions.

Harry and Ron both whip around, but Hermione says loudly, waving to somebody over Malfoy’s shoulder, “Hello, Professor Moody!” Malfoy goes pale and jumps backwards, looking wildly around for Moody, but he is still up at the staff table, finishing his stew.

“Twitchy little ferret, aren’t you, Malfoy?” says Hermione scathingly, and she, Harry, Ron, and I go up the marble staircase laughing heartily. I drape my arm around Hermione immensely pleased with my friend.

“See Jamie. One can fight just as well with words rather than fists.” She says happily.

“Yes but sometimes you just need to feel the satisfaction of seeing Malfoy with a black eye.” I say wistfully. Harry nods his head in agreement to that statement.

“Hermione,” says Ron, looking sideways at her, suddenly frowning, “your teeth . . .”

“What about them?” She asks.

“Well, they’re different . . . I’ve just noticed. . . .”

“Of course they are — did you expect me to keep those fangs Malfoy gave me?”

“No, I mean, they’re different to how they were before he put that hex on you. . . . They’re all . . . straight and — and normal-sized.” Hermione suddenly smiles very mischievously, and Harry, and I notice it too: It is a very different smile from the one we remember. Personally it kind of scares me.

“Mione…” I start.

“Well . . . when I went up to Madam Pomfrey to get them shrunk, she held up a mirror and told me to stop her when they were back to how they normally were,” she says. “And I just . . . let her carry on a bit.” She smiles even more widely. “Mum and Dad won’t be too pleased. I’ve been trying to persuade them to let me shrink them for ages, but they wanted me to carry on with my braces. You know, they’re dentists, they just don’t think teeth and magic should — look! Pigwidgeon’s back!”

Ron’s tiny owl is twittering madly on the top of the icicle-laden banisters, a scroll of parchment tied to his leg. People passing him are pointing and laughing, and a group of third-year girls pause and say, “Oh look at the weeny owl! Isn’t he cute?”

I snicker as Ron turns red. “Stupid little feathery git!” Ron hisses, hurrying up the stairs and snatching up Pigwidgeon. “You bring letters to the addressee! You don’t hang around showing off!”

Pigwidgeon hoots happily, his head protruding over Ron’s fist. The third-year girls all look very shocked.

“Clear off!” Ron snaps at them, waving the fist holding Pigwidgeon, who hoots more happily than ever as he soars through the air. “Here — take it, Harry,” Ron adds in an undertone as the third-year girls scuttle away looking scandalized. He pulls Sirius’s reply off Pigwidgeon’s leg, Harry pockets it, and we hurry back to Gryffindor Tower to read it.

“Well Ron, now you’ll start getting that reputation as a brute.” I tell him, and dodges the swipe that he takes at me. I sidle along Hermione’s other side, and the girl rolls her eyes at us.

“Honestly…” She sighs.

Everyone in the common room is much too busy in letting off more holiday steam to observe what anyone else is up to. Ron, Harry, Hermione, and I sit apart from everyone else by a dark window that is gradually filling up with snow, and Harry reads out:

Dear Harry,

Congratulations on getting past the Horntail. Whoever put your name in that goblet shouldn’t be feeling too happy right now! I was going to suggest a Conjunctivitis Curse, as a dragon’s eyes are its weakest point — “That’s what Krum did!” Hermione whispers — but your way was better, I’m impressed.

Don’t get complacent, though, Harry. You’ve only done one task; whoever put you in for the tournament’s got plenty more opportunity if they’re trying to hurt you. Keep your eyes open — particularly when the person we discussed is around — and concentrate on keeping yourself out of trouble.

Keep in touch, I still want to hear about anything unusual.

Sirius

 

“He sounds exactly like Moody,” says Harry quietly, tucking the letter away again inside his robes. “‘Constant vigilance!’ You’d think I walk around with my eyes shut, banging off the walls. . . .”

“But he’s right, Harry,” says Hermione, “you have still got two tasks to do. You really ought to have a look at that egg, you know, and start working out what it means. . . .”

“Hermione, he’s got ages!” snaps Ron. “Want a game of chess, Harry?”

“Yeah, okay,” says Harry. Then, spotting the look on Hermione’s face, he says, “Come on, how’m I supposed to concentrate with all this noise going on? I won’t even be able to hear the egg over this lot.”

“Well at least we wouldn’t have our ears bleeding then.” Jamie grumbles rubbing her ears just thinking about the loud wailing screech, thankful that there won’t be any need to listen to it.

“Oh I suppose not,” she sighs, and she sits down beside Jamie to watch their chess match, which culminates in an exciting checkmate of Ron’s, involving a couple of recklessly brave pawns and a very violent bishop. At least no one bled this time.

* * *

 

The next morning I am thrust back into reality by a high shrill voice. I groan, and pull my pillow out from under me, and put it over my head to attempt to block out the noise. “THIS WAS JUST WHAT I WANTED!” Lavender screams again, and I give up hope at having a peaceful Christmas morning.

I get up and glare blearily at the girl dancing around in her long pink nightgown, clutching a box to her chest. The rest of the girls are up now as well, in various states of awareness. “Thank you for the bloody wake up call, and guess what Lavender, I didn’t get what I wanted. You can still talk!” I exclaim sadly.

Lavender shoots an evil glare at me, and turns back to her bed to continue opening presents. At least we’ve gotten back to the stage where she doesn’t acknowledge my existence again. I like this stage much better than the others. Hermione slips out of bed and into her slippers, and the pair of us start opening the gifts on our bed.

They’re pretty much the same as every year. Luka gave me a jumper with the phrase ‘Hot Blooded’ on it. Harry got me a broom servicing kit, and Ron sprung for a lot of candy this year, and Hermione being Hermione she got me more books. Mrs. Weasley knit me another sweater but this time I felt rather fond of it for it had a letter J knit into it for my name.

Once Hermione and I were done opening our gifts, we made a quick exit back down to the common room, since Lavender Brown’s squeaky voice was threatening to give me a migraine. We waited by one of the couches discussing none other than the Yule Ball, which was supposed to take place tonight.

Hermione was rather excited to be going, especially with who her date was going to be. I on the other hand still dread and despise balls despite the fact that I’m going with one of my friends. There’s only so much pure blood sanctimony a girl can take before she needs to go and throw up.

Finally after what seems like ages later, the boys come tumbling down the stairs, and our small group is off to breakfast. We spend most of the morning in Gryffindor Tower, where everyone is enjoying their presents, then return to the Great Hall for a magnificent lunch, which includes at least a hundred turkeys and Christmas puddings, and large piles of Cribbage’s Wizarding Crackers.

We went out onto the grounds in the afternoon; the snow is untouched except for the deep channels made by the Durmstrang and Beauxbatons students on their way up to the castle. Hermione chooses to watch Harry, the Weasleys’, and me snowball fight rather than join in, and at five o’clock said she is going back upstairs to get ready for the ball. Not to mention dragging a snow covered me along behind her with a very grumpy look.

“What, you need three hours?” says Ron, looking at her incredulously and paying for his lapse in concentration when a large snowball, thrown by George, hits him hard on the side of the head. “Who’re you going with?” he yells after Hermione, but she just waves and disappears with me up the stone steps into the castle.

By the time we get back up to our dormitory, it looks like a dress shop had exploded and thrown up it there at the same time. Not a surface was spared, and the sir was sickly sweet with the overpowering smell of too much perfume. “I’ve changed my mind, lets go battle an ogre. At least the smell will be better.” I comment, holding the sleeve of my jumper over my poor over sensitive nose.

Hermione rolls her eyes at me, and tugs me over to our beds. “Come on now Jamie. When are we ever going to get another chance to go to one of these?” Hermione whines. I cross my arms over my chest and glare at her.

“There’s a gala in the summer, should I put your name down in attendance instead of mine?” I question her. Hermione just sighs, and places me down on her desk chair with an oomph. She doesn’t have to manhandle me. I swear these girls think that they have to resort to violence to get what they want. I let her play with my hair getting it to curl just so, and after a twenty minute argument the smallest amount of makeup on my face.

“I don’t know what you’re so against about all this girly stuff Jamie. You’re beautiful.” Hermione says softly so the other three girls in the room don’t take notice of the comment. I close my eyes for a brief moment and sigh.

“I have nothing against girly stuff Hermione. I am a girl after all. I don’t know… I guess that I just feel comfortable enough in my own skin to forgo all this crap.” I attempt to explain to her. I pause for a second, and turn around to see how Hermione is taking it. There is a soft smile on her face, and she finally sets the curler down.

“And that confidence dear Jamie, is what makes you all the more stunning.” She tells me. I feel a blush heat up my skin, but shake it off so, that I can stand and get started on Hermione’s hair. Once I was done, Hermione set off applying her own makeup and I went about getting into my dress robes. She still wasn’t exactly sure why witches had to still wear robes on formal occasions, but I explained it to her that this is just the way that our very old fashioned society still operates in some way.

As soon as I was dressed in my dark green set that would go stunningly with Harry’s I looked over to Hermione and stopped breathing for a second. Gone was the shy, and hesitant visage of my best friend. In her place was a beautiful, elegant, and very stunning woman.

“Well… what do you think?” She asks me worriedly spinning around once in her beautiful blue robes.

“Brilliantly beautiful Mione. The school won’t know what hit them.” I assure her, watching as a glowing blush adorns her cheeks.

“I should say the same about you Jamie. Who knew that a graceful and dashing girl was there all the time behind the rough and tumble tom boy?” She giggles. I roll my eyes at my friend, and execute a small spin.

“It’s always been there Mione. One does not simply grow up a Pendragon without taking etiquette classes, and functioning in high society. At least I will get a few dances out of this night. That’s the only thing that will make this ball even reasonably enjoyable. That is unless Malfoy trips over his own two feet.” I grin. Hermione shakes her head at me, and starts for the door.

“I have to go and meet V— him.” She tells me. I nod my head and give her a jaunty salute and a thumbs up, if anyone deserves this night its Hermione. Quickly the chatter and squeals of Lavender and Parvati grow louder now that Hermione’s gone, so I make a break for it down to the common room.

The common room looks strange, full of people wearing different colors instead of the usual mass of black. Parvati is waiting for Ron at the foot of the stairs. She looks very pretty indeed, in robes of shocking pink, with her long dark plait braided with gold, and gold bracelets glimmering at her wrists. I still wonder how exactly he got her to agree to go to this ball with him. We aren’t yet advanced enough to be able to produce love potions yet. So she must really want to go to the ball, since I know for a fact that she does not like him one bit.

Finally like a herd of nervous sheep, the boys climb down their own stairs in their dress robes. I look for the familiar shock of unruly black hair of my friend. When I spot it, I’m surprised that Harry looks rather handsome in his dark green dress robes as well. He grins when he spots me, but comes to a stop a few paces away from me.

“Jamie…?” He asks. I roll my eyes at the boy who looks dumbfounded about whether it is truly me or not.

“You’re not the only one who can clean up well Potter.” I tell him. Ron comes over to us as well with Parvati. He stops dead at the sight of me.

“Bloody hell Jamie!” He cries, which for Ron is pretty much a high compliment. Parvati is giving me a pinched look but switches to a friendly smile when she catches my gaze. I roll my eyes again, before turning back to Harry who has gotten himself under control again.

He offers me his arm and I take it, letting my training take over, and reign in the free spirit inside me that loathes the fact that I have to be escorted. “Shall we go down?” I ask him cautiously. Right now Harry looks like he wants to run right back up to his dormitory and pretend that this night never really happened.

“Sure?” He says though it sounds more like a question. As we make our way down to the Great Hall, I glance at Ron’s robes again and see that they’re frayed and that the lace is gone. He went from girly to dumpy in the matter of minutes.

The entrance hall is packed with students too, all milling around waiting for eight o’clock, when the doors to the Great Hall will be thrown open. Those people who are meeting partners from different Houses are edging through the crowd trying to find one another. I scan over the crowd in search for Luka and Ariana since the pair of them are going to this ball together.

I at least want to say hello before we’re swept away. So the four of us snake through the crowd until I see a set of deep blue dress robes attached to my brother. “Well someone can actually pull off dress robes around here.” I comment playfully to him. Luka spins around and smiles widely at the sight of me.

“I would rather say two people Jamie. You look brilliant as you always do. Now all we need is for the lovely Miss Dumbledore to grace us with her presence and the night will be set.” Luka says grandly.

“I thought that mockery comes after dancing in the social events Pendragon?” A voice interrupts our fun. Both Luka and I spin around to a heart stopping sight. Ariana’s blond hair is falling down to her shoulders in perfect waves and her brown eyes are shining bright with mirth and excitement. The matching deep blue of her dress robes to Luka’s is stunning on her, and I’m fairly sure that my mouth is still open at the moment.

“You look beautiful Ariana.” Luka tells her, recovering before me from his trance. I quickly shake myself off, and smile at her shyly.

“Gorgeous as always.” I say, winning a dazzling smile from her in return. Harry comes back over to me and offers his arm again, causing the smile on her face to dim.

“I believe that we’re supposed to me closer to the doors. I promise we’ll find them again okay?” Harry asks me. I nod my head reluctantly and Luka gives me a shooing motion to go with Harry, but Ariana looks rather put out all of the sudden. Nevertheless I allow Harry to drag me away from them.

As we make our way through the crowd again, Ron suddenly squeaks and bends his knees slightly to hide behind Harry.

“What’s wrong?” I ask before seeing what it is. Fleur Delacour is passing, looking stunning in robes of silver-gray satin, and accompanied by the Ravenclaw Quidditch Captain, Roger Davies. When they have disappeared, Ron stands straight again and stares over the heads of the crowd.

“Where is Hermione?” he asks. I keep my lips shut not wanting to ruin her whole surprise by letting the cat out of the bag now. I just can’t wait to see the look on Ron’s face. This will be one of the highlights of my night.

A group of Slytherins come up the steps from their dungeon common room. Malfoy is in front; he is wearing dress robes of black velvet with a high collar, which in my opinion makes him look like a vicar. Pansy Parkinson in very frilly robes of pale pink is clutching Malfoy’s arm. Crabbe and Goyle are both wearing green; they resemble moss-colored boulders, and neither of them, I am pleased to see, have managed to find a partner. That would be a truly scary sight for any girl with them would have to be locked away in the psyche ward at St. Mundgos.

The oak front doors open, and everyone turns to look as the Durmstrang students enter with Professor Karkaroff. Krum is at the front of the party, accompanied by a pretty girl in blue robes that has to be Hermione. Over their heads I see that an area of lawn right in front of the castle has been transformed into a sort of grotto full of fairy lights — meaning hundreds of actual living fairies are sitting in the rosebushes that have been conjured there, and fluttering over the statues of what seem to be Father Christmas and his reindeer.

Then Professor McGonagall’s voice calls, “Champions over here, please!”

Harry says “See you in a minute” to Ron and Parvati and walks forward with me, the chattering crowd parting to let us through. Professor McGonagall, who is wearing dress robes of red tartan and has arranged a rather ugly wreath of thistles around the brim of her hat, tells us to wait on one side of the doors while everyone else goes inside; we are to enter the Great Hall in procession when the rest of the students have sat down. Fleur Delacour and Roger Davies station themselves nearest the doors; Davies looks so stunned by his good fortune in having Fleur for a partner that he can hardly take his eyes off her. Cedric and Cho are close to us too; Harry looks away from them so he won’t have to talk to them.

I can tell the moment that my friend has figured out that the girl in blue is Hermione, for he gasps and his jaw drops open. I do say I’m rather proud of her, and my self for being able to do her hair so. Her hair; it is no longer bushy but sleek and shiny, and twisted up into an elegant knot at the back of her head. She is wearing robes made of a floaty, periwinkle-blue material, and she is holding herself differently, somehow — or maybe it is merely the absence of the twenty or so books she usually has slung over her back. She is also smiling — rather nervously, it is true — but the reduction in the size of her front teeth is more noticeable than ever.

“Hi, Harry!” she says. “Hi, Jamie!” I grin widely at my friend and smack Harry slightly on the shoulder to get him to stop gaping openly at Hermione like he had never seen her before.

When the doors to the Great Hall open, Krum’s fan club from the library stalks past, throwing Hermione looks of deepest loathing. Pansy Parkinson gapes at her as she walks by with Malfoy, and even he doesn’t seem to be able to find an insult to throw at her, which I am very amused about. Ron, however, walks right past Hermione without looking at her. That is going to spell trouble tonight. Luka and Ariana pass us, and complement Hermione on her dress and how beautiful she is before going in as well. Got to love my friends.

Once everyone else is settled in the Hall, Professor McGonagall tells the champions and their partners to get in line in pairs and to follow her. We do so, and everyone in the Great Hall applauds as we enter and start walking up towards a large round table at the top of the Hall, where the judges are sitting. I keep a firm grip on Harry and smile at him reassuringly.

Everything will be fine tonight, a few minutes of discomfort for the rest of the night being relaxing. That I can handle. The walls of the Hall have all been covered in sparkling silver frost, with hundreds of garlands of mistletoe and ivy crossing the starry black ceiling. The House tables have vanished; instead, there are about a hundred smaller, lantern-lit ones, each seating about a dozen people.

It’s beautiful to say the least. I’m happy that my robes are of a silk material since it will get ridiculously hot in here later on. We spot Ron and Parvati as we near the top table. Ron iss watching Hermione pass with narrowed eyes. Parvati is looking sulky.

Dumbledore smiles happily as the champions approach the top table, but Karkaroff wears an expression remarkably like Ron’s as he watches Krum and Hermione draw nearer. Ludo Bagman, tonight in robes of bright purple with large yellow stars, is clapping as enthusiastically as any of the students; and Madame Maxime, who has changed her usual uniform of black satin for a flowing gown of lavender silk, is applauding us politely. But Mr. Crouch, I suddenly realize, is not there. The fifth seat at the table is occupied by Percy Weasley.

When the champions and their partners reach the table, Percy draws out the empty chair beside him, staring pointedly at Harry. Harry takes the hint and sits down next to Percy, who is wearing brand-new, navy-blue dress robes and an expression of such smugness that I think it ought to be fined. I take my seat beside Harry happily, for I’m not the one that has to sit next to him tonight. I have been enjoying my Percy free time.

“I’ve been promoted,” Percy says before Harry can even ask, and from his tone, he might be announcing his election as supreme ruler of the universe. “I’m now Mr. Crouch’s personal assistant, and I’m here representing him.”

“Why didn’t he come?” Harry asks. I’m not looking forward to being lectured on cauldron bottoms all through dinner. Maybe I can distract myself be counting mistletoe.

“I’m afraid to say Mr. Crouch isn’t well, not well at all. Hasn’t been right since the World Cup. Hardly surprising — overwork. He’s not as young as he was — though still quite brilliant, of course, the mind remains as great as it ever was. But the World Cup was a fiasco for the whole Ministry, and then, Mr. Crouch suffered a huge personal shock with the misbehavior of that house-elf of his, Blinky, or whatever she was called. Naturally, he dismissed her immediately afterward, but — well, as I say, he’s getting on, he needs looking after, and I think he’s found a definite drop in his home comforts since she left. And then we had the tournament to arrange, and the aftermath of the Cup to deal with — that revolting Skeeter woman buzzing around — no, poor man, he’s having a well-earned, quiet Christmas. I’m just glad he knew he had someone he could rely upon to take his place.”

I want very much to ask whether Mr. Crouch has stopped calling Percy “Weatherby” yet, but resist the temptation. There is no food as yet on the glittering golden plates, but small menus are lying in front of each of us. I pick mine up uncertainly and look around — there are no waiters. Dumbledore, however, looks carefully down at his own menu, then says very clearly to his plate, “Pork chops!”

And pork chops appear.

Getting the idea, the rest of the table places their orders with their plates too. Harry leans in closer to me and I turn to give him my attention. “Yes?” I ask.

“I didn’t get the chance to say so earlier but you look brilliant tonight Jamie. I couldn’t ask for a prettier girl up here with me, so thank you for agreeing to do this with me.” Harry tells me. I grin at him, and give his hand a squeeze.

“Who knows Potter maybe this whole night won’t be a bust. You could find another pretty girl to dance with.” I tell him. With that Harry and I glance up at Hermione to see how she feels about this new and more complicated method of dining — surely it means plenty of extra work for the house-elves? — but for once, Hermione doesn’t seem to be thinking about S.P.E.W. She is deep in talk with Viktor Krum and hardly seems to notice what she is eating.

It now occurred to me that I have never actually heard Krum speak before, but he is certainly talking now, and very enthusiastically at that. “Vell, ve have a castle also, not as big as this, nor as comfortable, I am thinking,” he is telling Hermione. “Ve have just four floors, and the fires are lit only for magical purposes. But ve have grounds larger even than these — though in vinter, ve have very little daylight, so ve are not enjoying them. But in summer ve are flying every day, over the lakes and the mountains —”

“Now, now, Viktor!” says Karkaroff with a laugh that doesn’t reach his cold eyes, “don’t go giving away anything else, now, or your charming friend will know exactly where to find us!”

Dumbledore smiles, his eyes twinkling. “Igor, all this secrecy . . . one would almost think you didn’t want visitors.”

“Well, Dumbledore,” says Karkaroff, displaying his yellowing teeth to their fullest extent, “we are all protective of our private domains, are we not? Do we not jealously guard the halls of learning that have been entrusted to us? Are we not right to be proud that we alone know our school’s secrets, and right to protect them?”

“Oh I would never dream of assuming I know all Hogwarts’ secrets, Igor,” says Dumbledore amicably. “Only this morning, for instance, I took a wrong turning on the way to the bathroom and found myself in a beautifully proportioned room I have never seen before, containing a really rather magnificent collection of chamber pots. When I went back to investigate more closely, I discovered that the room had vanished. But I must keep an eye out for it. Possibly it is only accessible at five-thirty in the morning. Or it may only appear at the quarter moon — or when the seeker has an exceptionally full bladder.”

Harry and I snort into our plates of goulash. Percy frowns, but I could swear Dumbledore has given us a very small wink. Meanwhile Fleur Delacour is criticizing the Hogwarts decorations to Roger Davies.

“Zis is nothing,” she says dismissively, looking around at the sparkling walls of the Great Hall. “At ze Palace of Beauxbatons, we ’ave ice sculptures all around ze dining chamber at Chreestmas. Zey do not melt, of course . . . zey are like ’uge statues of diamond, glittering around ze place. And ze food is seemply superb. And we ’ave choirs of wood nymphs, ’oo serenade us as we eat. We ’ave none of zis ugly armor in ze ’alls, and eef a poltergeist ever entaired into Beauxbatons, ’e would be expelled like zat.” She slaps her hand onto the table impatiently.

Roger Davies is watching her talk with a very dazed look on his face, and he keeps missing his mouth with his fork. I have the impression that Davies is too busy staring at Fleur to take in a word she is saying. I do have to admit that this night is shaping up to be rather entertaining.

“Absolutely right,” he says quickly, slapping his own hand down on the table in imitation of Fleur. “Like that. Yeah.”

I look around the Hall. Hagrid is sitting at one of the other staff tables; he is back in his horrible hairy brown suit and gazing up at the top table. I see him give a small wave, and looking around, see Madame Maxime return it, her opals glittering in the candlelight.

Hermione is now teaching Krum to say her name properly; he keeps calling her “Hermy-own.”

“Her-my-oh-nee,” she says slowly and clearly.

“Herm-own-ninny.”

“Close enough,” she says, catching Harry’s and my eye and grinning. I can’t help but snicker at the hopeless battle that she is facing.

When all the food has been consumed, Dumbledore stands up and asks the students to do the same. Then, with a wave of his wand, all the tables zoom back along the walls leaving the floor clear, and then he conjures a raised platform into existence along the right wall. A set of drums, several guitars, a lute, a cello, and some bagpipes are set upon it.

The Weird Sisters now troop up onto the stage to wildly enthusiastic applause; they are all extremely hairy and dressed in black robes that have been artfully ripped and torn. They pick up their instruments, and the other champions and their partners are standing up.

I rise and Harry quickly shoots up beside me. “Jamie, I still can’t dance.” Harry hisses to me worriedly. I smile at him reassuringly, and offer him my hand.

“If your ego can survive the hit, I can lead, you won’t look like a total fool.” I tell him softly. Harry nods his head eagerly, and I grin at him. Once on the dance floor, I place one of Harry’s hands on my waist, and hold the other in my hand.

“Here goes nothing boy wonder.” I quip, and with that I start leading the two of us through a slow waltz. Harry should give himself more credit; he can actually keep in step with me. Soon it’s no longer the champions being the center of attention.

Neville and Ginny are dancing nearby — I can see Ginny wincing frequently as Neville trods on her feet — and Dumbledore is waltzing with Madame Maxime. He is so dwarfed by her that the top of his pointed hat barely tickles her chin; however, she moves very gracefully for a woman so large. Mad-Eye Moody is doing an extremely ungainly two-step with Professor Sinistra, who is nervously avoiding his wooden leg.

“Nice socks, Potter,” Moody growls as he passes, his magical eye staring through Harry’s robes.

“Oh — yeah, Dobby the house-elf knitted them for me,” says Harry, grinning. I laugh and lean my forehead against Harry’s shoulder briefly. As soon as they’re away, we keep on dancing.

“You know, this isn’t that bad.” Harry says finally. I pull away from him a little to grin victoriously at him.

“See! I told you that dancing would be the best part of this night!” I exclaim. Harry chuckles at shakes his head at me exuberance.

“That doesn’t mean that I want to dance any longer though.” He tells me. I pout at that for the music stops, and we all applaud politely. “Come on, let’s go sit for a while.”

“You’re absolutely no fun Potter.” I whine. Harry grins and tugs me off the dance floor anyway.

“Oh yes, taking you on life threatening adventures every year is particularly boring and lacking in fun.” Harry deadpans. I grin at him finally, and we make our way to the table where Ron and Parvati are at.

“How’s it going?” Harry asks Ron, sitting down and opening a bottle of butterbeer. I grab one as well, thankful for the treat.

Ron doesn’t answer. He is glaring at Hermione and Krum, who are dancing nearby. Parvati is sitting with her arms and legs crossed, one foot jiggling in time to the music. Every now and then she throws a disgruntled look at Ron, who is completely ignoring her. He really doesn’t know how to act around girls.

Hermione comes over to the four of us, spinning down into the chair beside me her cheeks tinged pink from all the dancing. She grins at us. “Hey Mione!” I say happily. Harry greets her as well, but Ron doesn’t say anything at all.

“It’s hot, isn’t it?” says Hermione, fanning herself with her hand. “Viktor’s just gone to get some drinks.”

Ron gives her a withering look. “Viktor?” he says. “Hasn’t he asked you to call him Vicky yet?”

Hermione looks at him in surprise. “What’s up with you?” she asks.

“If you don’t know,” says Ron scathingly, “I’m not going to tell you.” Hermione stares at him, then at Harry, who shrugs, before turning to me.

“Don’t look at me I don’t speak imbecile.” I say, and Ron shoots a glare at me.

“Ron, what — ?” Hermione starts.

“He’s from Durmstrang!” spits Ron. “He’s competing against Harry! Against Hogwarts! You — you’re —” Ron is obviously casting around for words strong enough to describe Hermione’s crime, “fraternizing with the enemy, that’s what you’re doing!”

Oh this is so not going to end well. I knew that this would be happening. Hermione’s mouth falls open.

“Don’t be so stupid!” she says after a moment. “The enemy! Honestly — who was the one who was all excited when they saw him arrive? Who was the one who wanted his autograph? Who’s got a model of him up in their dormitory?”

Ron chooses to ignore this. “I s’pose he asked you to come with him while you were both in the library?”

“Yes, he did,” says Hermione, the pink patches on her cheeks glowing more brightly. “So what?”

“What happened — trying to get him to join spew, were you?”

“No, I wasn’t! If you really want to know, he — he said he’d been coming up to the library every day to try and talk to me, but he hadn’t been able to pluck up the courage!” Hermione says this very quickly, and blushes so deeply that she is the same color as Parvati’s robes.

“Yeah, well — that’s his story,” says Ron nastily.

“And what’s that supposed to mean?” She fires back

“Obvious, isn’t it? He’s Karkaroff’s student, isn’t he? He knows who you hang around with. . . . He’s just trying to get closer to Harry — get inside information on him — or get near enough to jinx him —”

Hermione looks as though Ron has slapped her, and I’m about ready to slap him. When she speaks, her voice quivers.

“For your information, he hasn’t asked me one single thing about Harry, not one.”

Ron changes tack at the speed of light.“Then he’s hoping you’ll help him find out what his egg means! I suppose you’ve been putting your heads together during those cozy little library sessions —”

“I’d never help him work out that egg!” says Hermione, looking outraged. “Never. How could you say something like that — I want Harry to win the tournament, Harry knows that, don’t you, Harry?”

“You’ve got a funny way of showing it,” sneers Ron.

“This whole tournament’s supposed to be about getting to know foreign wizards and making friends with them!” says Hermione hotly.

“No it isn’t!” shouts Ron. “It’s about winning!” People are starting to stare at them.

“Ron,” says Harry quietly, “I haven’t got a problem with Hermione coming with Krum —”

But Ron ignored Harry too.

“I don’t have a problem with it either. We both know that you’d betray Harry before Hermione would.” I snarl. Ron glares at me murderously for brining up earlier this term. He then ignores me as well.

“Why don’t you go and find Vicky, he’ll be wondering where you are,” says Ron.

“Don’t call him Vicky!” Hermione jumps to her feet and storms off across the dance floor, disappearing into the crowd. Ron watches her go with a mixture of anger and satisfaction on his face.

“Are you going to ask me to dance at all?” Parvati asks him.

“No,” says Ron, still glaring after Hermione.

“Fine,” snaps Parvati, and she gets up and goes to join Padma and the Beauxbatons boy, who conjures up one of his friends to join them so fast that I could swear he has zoomed him there by a Summoning Charm.

“Vare is Herm-own-ninny?” says a voice. Krum has just arrived at our table clutching two butterbeers.

“No idea,” says Ron mulishly, looking up at him. “Lost her, have you?”

Krum is looking surly again.

“Vell, if you see her, tell her I haff drinks,” he says, and he slouches off. I swing my angry gaze over to Ron.

“You really are a bloody idiot aren’t you? You can’t stop thinking about yourself for one minute and let her have some happiness. This is the first time in a very long time that I’ve seen my best friend truly happy and you have to go and ruin it for her! So you better get your head out of your arse Ronald Weasley.” I growl, getting up and heading for the exit of the Great Hall. It’s getting too hot and crowded in this room again, and I’m tired of the company that I’m keeping.

I make my way outside into the courtyard, which has been transformed into the garden decked with all the fairy lights. I wander over to an empty bench and it is far enough away from the other students that I’m alone. Letting out a breath of air, I shake my head dejectedly. I hate balls, and this is one of the main reasons why.

I look up at the stars that I can see. Crunching and shuffling starts up to my right, and I look over to see who is coming. A second later a blond head pops out of the darkness. “Ariana?” I ask hesitantly. The girl stiffens for a second before coming over to my bench.

“What are you doing out here? Don’t you have a date to get back to? I’m sure he’s wondering where you are?” She says refusing to look at me but at a bush filled with fairies in front of us.

“Oh Harry? No, he’ll be fine. Besides he has Ron to keep him company anyway. Not that Ron deserves to have anyone be nice to him at the moment.” I mutter scuffing my dress shoes on the ground. Ariana whips around to give me a weird look.

“Don’t you want to be with your date though?” She asks cautiously as she approaches me.

“Why do you keep calling this a date? I only agreed to go with Harry because Cho wouldn’t go with him. Personally I would have been perfectly happy going alone or by myself. You know me Ariana, I hate these things.” I say with a crooked grin.

“Oh. Well that’s good. I-I mean not good— but not bad either. I— you know what forget I said anything. My head isn’t with me. Too much butterbeer.” Ariana tells me sitting down beside me. I snort and shake my head at her.

“I never thought that I’d see the day where Ariana Dumbledore would be having problems with her words. All it took was a ball, and schoolmates that we don’t really know or like.” I declare. She gives me a shove, and I nudge her back.

“So I take it that this didn’t turn out to be the greatest of nights.” She says after a few minutes.

“You could say that again. I always knew that things would get more complicated when we grew older but I didn’t expect it to tear apart me friends like this. I just— I just don’t understand why everyone is suddenly going all crazy about finding someone to be with. We’re still young.” I say trailing off. I glance over at Ariana to find her shaking with suppressed laughter.

“What’s so funny?” I demand. She lets a chuckle go, and shakes her head at me.

“You are. Don’t worry though Pendragon, you’ll get there eventually.” She tells me squeezing my hand quickly before getting up to leave.

“How do you know?” I call after her. She pauses by one of the fairies and glances back at me.

“I just do.” She says cryptically before disappearing back again. After a few minutes of staring out at nothing again, I get up and make my way back up to Gryffindor Tower. I’m tired of being dressed up, and I’m ready to sleep in until maybe next month.

I come across the drunken portrait of the Fat Lady and smile. “Fairy Lights.” I say with an unintelligible mumble she swings open, and I climb in only coming to a stop beside Harry as we both watch with wide eyes at the scene unfolding in front of us.

Ron and Hermione are having a blazing row. Standing ten feet apart, they are bellowing at each other, each scarlet in the face.

“Well, if you don’t like it, you know what the solution is, don’t you?” yells Hermione; her hair is coming down out of its elegant bun now, and her face is screwed up in anger.

“Oh yeah?” Ron yells back. “What’s that?”

“Next time there’s a ball, ask me before someone else does, and not as a last resort!” She cries. Ron mouths soundlessly like a goldfish out of water as Hermione turns on her heel and storms up the girls’ staircase to bed. Ron turns to look at Harry and me.

“I don’t even know what to say anymore.” I tell him, and bid both boys goodnight and head up the stairs after Hermione. That night I lay beside her on her bed as she switches from angry scathing rants about Ron, to tears and runny noses for she really wanted tonight to go perfectly.

There was really only one thing that I could do. Hold her and make sure that she knew that she wasn’t alone. It wasn’t like I knew how to handle these situations any better. At least we had made it through the famed Yule Ball. Thank Merlin these things aren’t annual.


	21. Rita Skeeter's Scoop

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything you recognize is J.K. Rowling's. Except Jamie, Luka, and Ariana.

Chapter 21- Rita Skeeter’s Scoop

 

Everybody gets up late on Boxing Day. The Gryffindor common room is much quieter than it has been lately, many yawns punctuating the lazy conversations. Hermione’s hair is bushy again; she confessed to Harry that she had me use liberal amounts of Sleekeazy’s Hair Potion on it for the ball, “but it’s way too much bother to do every day,” she says matter-of-factly, scratching a purring Crookshanks behind the ears.

Ron and Hermione seem to have reached an unspoken agreement not to discuss their argument. They are being quite friendly to each other, though oddly formal. Ron and Harry waste no time in telling Hermione and me about the conversation they overheard between Madame Maxime and Hagrid, but Hermione doesn’t find the news that Hagrid was a half-giant nearly as shocking as Ron did.

“Well, I thought he must be,” she says, shrugging. “I knew he couldn’t be pure giant because they’re about twenty feet tall. But honestly, all this hysteria about giants. They can’t all be horrible. . . . It’s the same sort of prejudice that people have toward werewolves. . . . It’s just bigotry, isn’t it?”

“I thought that everyone could tell? Not many humans would ever grow to that height naturally.” I muse.

Ron looks like he wants to reply scathingly, but perhaps he doesn’t want another row, because he contents himself with shaking his head disbelievingly while Hermione isn’t looking. I roll my eyes at the closed mindedness of my friend. Sometimes I don’t understand how he could even function properly.

Of course now that all the excitement has died down it was time again for everyone to be focused on the fact that homework was still to be done in preparation for the start of the new term. I can personally hardly believe that this year is almost over, and I have yet to be personally thrust into a life or death situation. It’s kind of weird to be honest. That didn’t stop the oncoming of school though.

Snow is still thick upon the grounds, and the greenhouse windows are covered in condensation so thick that we can’t see out of them in Herbology. Nobody is looking forward to Care of Magical Creatures much in this weather, though as Ron says, the skrewts will probably warm us up nicely, either by chasing us, or blasting off so forcefully that Hagrid’s cabin will catch fire.

When we arrive at Hagrid’s cabin, however, we find an elderly witch with closely cropped gray hair and a very prominent chin standing before his front door.

“Hurry up, now, the bell rang five minutes ago,” she barks at us as we struggle towards her through the snow.

“Who’re you?” asks Ron, staring at her. “Where’s Hagrid?”

“My name is Professor Grubbly-Plank,” she says briskly. “I am your temporary Care of Magical Creatures teacher.”

“Where’s Hagrid?” Harry repeats loudly. Somehow I don’t think that Hagrid is off having vacation at a warm beach.

“He is indisposed,” states Professor Grubbly-Plank shortly. Soft and unpleasant laughter reaches my ears. I turn; Draco Malfoy and the rest of the Slytherins are joining the class. All of them look gleeful, and none of them look surprised to see Professor Grubbly-Plank. I swear I’ll learn how to transfigure a human one day and when I do, Malfoy will be spending plenty time in ferret form.

“This way, please,” says Professor Grubbly-Plank, and she strides off around the paddock where the Beauxbatons horses are shivering. Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I follow her, looking back over our shoulders at Hagrid’s cabin. All the curtains are closed. Is Hagrid in there, alone and ill?

“What’s wrong with Hagrid?” Harry asks, hurrying to catch up with Professor Grubbly-Plank.

“Never you mind,” she says as though she thinks he is being nosy.

“I do mind, though,” says Harry hotly. “What’s up with him?” Professor Grubbly-Plank acts as though she can’t hear him. She leads us past the paddock where the huge Beauxbatons horses are standing, huddled against the cold, and towards a tree on the edge of the forest, where a large and beautiful unicorn is tethered.

Many of the girls “oooooh!” at the sight of the unicorn. Even though my reaction isn’t the same as the rest of them, I do have to admit that the creature is rather fantastic. I can see why both muggles and wizards alike would be fascinated with them.

“Oh it’s so beautiful!” whispers Lavender Brown. “How did she get it? They’re supposed to be really hard to catch!” The unicorn is so brightly white it makes the snow all around look gray. It is pawing the ground nervously with its golden hooves and throwing back its horned head.

“Boys keep back!” barks Professor Grubbly-Plank, throwing out an arm and catching Harry hard in the chest. “They prefer the woman’s touch, unicorns. Girls to the front, and approach with care, come on, easy does it. . . .”

I roll my eyes as I follow behind an excited Hermione. I allow everyone else to go in front of me because even though it is a wonderful sight, part of me just doesn’t care for the creature. I guess it must be all that dragon’s blood running through me. I chuckle to myself at the thought.

I glance back at the boys to see Malfoy and his buffoons looking smug, while Harry and Ron look over the Daily Prophet. Finding their confrontation much more interesting than a unicorn I make my way back over to them. “Really I thought that you two would know better than anyone not to read the trash that rag publishes.” I comment coming to a stop to glance at the article they’re reading.

Harry looks ready to punch something or someone by the way his knuckles are turning white while gripping the paper. Ron just looks disgusted personally. I glare at the paper finally understanding that its Hagrid being half giant that’s the topic of the article. It was written by my favorite parasite of a reporter as well, which is just perfect.

“How did she find out?” Ron whispers, looking at the two of us worriedly.

“How does she find out anything, she takes a shot in the dark, then makes up the rest. That’s how she operates.” I growl. Harry is not even following along with our conversation.

“What d’you mean, ‘we all hate Hagrid’?” Harry spits at Malfoy. “What’s this rubbish about him” — he points at Crabbe — “getting a bad bite off a flobberworm? They haven’t even got teeth!”

Crabbe is sniggering, apparently very pleased with himself. “Well, I think this should put an end to the oaf’s teaching career,” says Malfoy, his eyes glinting. “Half-giant . . . and there was me thinking he’d just swallowed a bottle of Skele-Gro when he was young. . . . None of the mummies and daddies are going to like this at all. . . . They’ll be worried he’ll eat their kids, ha, ha. . . .”

“If Hagrid were to swallow you Malfoy that’d probably be a relief to your parents Malfoy, oh, excuse me, ferret.” I snarl at the cretin. His cheeks tinge pink and he glares right back at me.

“At least I have parents unlike you and Potter. Yours couldn’t even stand the sight of you long enough to stick around before you were out of diapers.” He shoots back. That’s it. This has gone long enough. I push past both a furious Harry and a growling Ron, and stalk straight up to Malfoy. He keeps smirking until I’m up into his personal space.

I move so that I can whisper into his ear. “Listen here you slimy ferret. You speak one more ill word about my parents let alone Harry’s, and I will make sure that you will never be able to advance the house of Malfoy into its next generation. And that is a promise that I plan to keep.” With that I pull away to see his ghostly white face.

I draw farther away, and a faint smirk graces his face when he thinks that I’m not going to do anything. That was wrong for him to think. I slam my knee up into his groin with satisfying force. A squeak escapes his lips, and he falls to the snow with tears in his eyes.

All the boys are watching me with wide eyes, and luckily the girls and professor are too occupied to see what had occurred here. “Bloody hell Jamie. Thank Merlin you’re on our side.” Ron breathes looking at the felled Malfoy a little longer. And that’s when the substitute teacher decides to turn around and make sure that the rest of her class is actually paying attention.

“Are you boys paying attention over there?” Professor Grubbly-Plank demands. She takes an obvious balk seeing me standing with them as well, but thankfully she chooses not to address the issue. Her eye does fall on Malfoy who is still laying in the snow trying to shield his intimate area lest another attack comes from me.

“You boy! Why are you laying in the snow?” She demands, staring to gather the attention of some of the girls over at the unicorn. Malfoy manages to pull himself up, and I’m ready for the sob story, and the immediate dismissal to Professor Dumbledore.

“N-nothing Professor! I just slipped is all.” Malfoy says quickly, and Harry, Ron, and I have to fight back the surprised looks on our faces. Malfoy never lets go of a situation to get one of us in trouble. There must be something really wrong with him to allow it to get this far.

The Professor just starts to talk louder to make sure that the rest of us can hear, and starts talking about the magical properties of unicorns, which I have already learned thanks to the never-ending fount of knowledge called Hermione and Luka.

“I hope she stays, that woman!” says Parvati Patil when the lesson has ended and we are all heading back to the castle for lunch. “That’s more what I thought Care of Magical Creatures would be like . . . proper creatures like unicorns, not monsters. . . .”

“What about Hagrid?” Harry says angrily as we march up the steps.

“What about him?” says Parvati in a hard voice. “He can still be gamekeeper, can’t he?” Things had been bad between her and the boys recently. Ron treated her so badly that she’s looped Harry into the group that she hates as well.

“That was a really good lesson,” says Hermione as we enter the Great Hall. “I didn’t know half the things Professor Grubbly-Plank told us about uni —”

“Look at this!” Harry snarls, and he shoves the Daily Prophet article under Hermione’s nose. Hermione’s mouth falls open as she reads. Her reaction is exactly the same as Ron’s.

“How did that horrible Skeeter woman find out? You don’t think Hagrid told her?”

“No,” says Harry, leading the way over to the Gryffindor table and throwing himself into a chair, furious. “He never even told us, did he? I reckon she was so mad he wouldn’t give her loads of horrible stuff about me, she went ferreting around to get him back.”

“Its not like that scenario is a long shot mind you. Daily Prophet— let us fill your head with untrue, mindless, mush!” I state making a nice little headline for all of this.

“Maybe she heard him telling Madame Maxime at the ball,” says Hermione quietly.

“We’d have seen her in the garden!” says Ron. “Anyway, she’s not supposed to come into school anymore, Hagrid said Dumbledore banned her. . . .”

“Maybe she’s got an Invisibility Cloak,” says Harry, ladling chicken casserole onto his plate and splashing it everywhere in his anger. “Sort of thing she’d do, isn’t it, hide in bushes listening to people.”

“Like you and Ron did, you mean,” says Hermione.

“Could be possible. I was out there and I didn’t overhear Hagrid talking at all, didn’t see anyone either.” I comment thinking back to my time alone with Ariana.

“We weren’t trying to hear him!” cries Ron indignantly. “We didn’t have any choice! The stupid prat, talking about his giantess mother where anyone could have heard him!”

“We’ve got to go and see him,” says Harry. “This evening, after Divination. Tell him we want him back . . . you do want him back?” he shoots at Hermione.

“I — well, I’m not going to pretend it didn’t make a nice change, having a proper Care of Magical Creatures lesson for once — but I do want Hagrid back, of course I do!” Hermione adds hastily, quailing under Harry’s furious stare. He seriously needs to take a step back and calm down about this whole Hagrid situation.

So that evening after dinner, the four of us leave the castle once more and go down through the frozen grounds to Hagrid’s cabin. We knock, and Fang’s booming barks answer.

“Hagrid, it’s us!” Harry shouts, pounding on the door. “Open up!” Hagrid doesn’t answer. We can hear Fang scratching at the door, whining, but it doesn’t open. We hammer on it for ten more minutes; Ron even goes and bangs on one of the windows, but there is no response.

“Maybe he’s not there. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s been gone.” I say shivering slightly in the cold. Less than a half hour ago I was warm and stuffed with food, now I’m frozen and it feels like there’s a lead weight in my stomach— not the way I had pictured my night going.

“What’s he avoiding us for?” Hermione says when we have finally given up and are walking back to the school. “He surely doesn’t think we’d care about him being half-giant?”

When we get back to the common room though, I approach my favorite redheaded twins and plop down next to them by the fire. “Well don’t you look just fozen.” George comments with a raise of his eyebrow. I roll my eyes, and focus on regaining the feeling in my hands.

“Harry took us on a field trip outside. I was bloody fantastic.” I mutter crossly, and Fred sets down his textbook— I know, I’m shocked too.

“Well that sounds just dreadful Jame— want us to stuff a canary cream into him?” Fred asks me a mischievous light in his eye. I see George nod his head rapidly as well. I chuckle but shake my head at that.

“No, but there is something that you can do for me boys. I think that it’s time that our esteemed guests got a little bit of the entertaining side of Hogwarts charm.” I say a grin beginning to form on my face. It only takes the pair of them a second to realize what I’m suggesting.

“Done and done. We’ve been waiting for this moment.” Fred says quickly staring to bounce excitedly in his seat.

“Those stuck up prats won’t even know what hit them.” George agrees evilly. I lean back in my seat, and relax as something finally decides to start going my way.

* * *

But it seems that Hagrid does care what people think. We don’t see a sign of him all week. He doesn’t appear at the staff table at mealtimes, we don’t see him going about his gamekeeper duties on the grounds, and Professor Grubbly-Plank continues to take the Care of Magical Creatures classes. Malfoy is gloating at every possible opportunity, but I’ve taken care to ignore him since I don’t want to push my luck at how oblivious the Professor is, and how willing Malfoy is to keep his silence.

There is a Hogsmeade visit halfway through January. Hermione is very surprised that Harry is coming with us.

“I just thought you’d want to take advantage of the common room being quiet,” she says. “Really get to work on that egg.”

“Oh I — I reckon I’ve got a pretty good idea what it’s about now,” Harry says with an unusually straight face. I hadn’t heard him talk about any progress with the egg. That’d be something that Harry would definitely brag about if he had actually solved it.

“Have you really?” says Hermione, looking impressed. “Well done!” I roll my eyes knowing that our friend hasn’t actually gotten what the next challenge is.

Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I leave the castle together on Saturday and set off through the cold, wet grounds toward the gates. As we pass the Durmstrang ship moored in the lake, we see Viktor Krum emerge onto the deck, dressed in nothing but swimming trunks. He is very skinny indeed, but apparently a lot tougher than he looks, because he climbs up onto the side of the ship, stretches out his arms, and dives, right into the lake. I glance over at Hermione and see that her eyes have glazed over watching him. With a groan I try to erase that mental image from my memory.

“He’s mad!” says Harry, staring at Krum’s dark head as it bobs out into the middle of the lake. “It must be freezing, it’s January!”

“It’s a lot colder where he comes from,” says Hermione. “I suppose it feels quite warm to him.”

“Yeah, but there’s still the giant squid,” says Ron. He doesn’t sound anxious — if anything, he sounds hopeful. Hermione notices his tone of voice and frowns.

“He’s really nice, you know,” she says. “He’s not at all like you’d think, coming from Durmstrang. He likes it much better here, he told me.”

Ron says nothing. He hasn’t mentioned Viktor Krum since the ball, but Harry to me that he had found a miniature arm under his bed on Boxing Day, which looked very much as though it had been snapped off a small model figure wearing Bulgarian Quidditch robes.

Harry and I keep our eyes peeled for a sign of Hagrid all the way down the slushy High Street, and suggest a visit to the Three Broomsticks once we have ascertained that Hagrid is not in any of the shops.

The pub is as crowded as ever, but one quick look around at all the tables tells me that Hagrid isn’t there. Heart sinking, we go up to the bar with Ron and Hermione, and order three butterbeers from Madam Rosmerta.

“Doesn’t he ever go into the office?” Hermione whispers suddenly. “Look!”

She points into the mirror behind the bar, and I see Ludo Bagman reflected there, sitting in a shadowy corner with a bunch of goblins. Bagman is talking very fast in a low voice to the goblins, all of whom have their arms crossed and are looking rather menacing.

“He never quite out grew his glory days.” I say simply, very much looking forward to getting some warm butterbeer into me.

Suddenly Bagman hurries over to us and whisks Harry away to talk to him in private. While Harry is being held captured by the Ministry official, the three of us make our way over to a booth where we can sit and relax with our butter beer. No sooner than we’d sat down does the familiar face of Ariana Dumbledore plop down beside me.

“Well if it hasn’t been a tiring week I’ll say. I swear I need a vacation for the beginning of this school year already.” She huffs exhaustedly. I roll my eyes as the girl slumps against me.

“Don’t tell me that the pressure of being a Dumbledore has finally gotten to you?” I joke lightly. Ariana turns her warm brown eyes to me and glares at me playfully.

“No more than being a Pendragon has been for you.” Ariana fires back, “Just for that you owe me a dance Jamie.”

My eyes widen at that. “W-what?” I stutter attempting to not choke on my butterbeer. Ariana ignores my sputtering and grabs me by the hand pulling me out of my seat and over to the open area where live bands sometimes come and play. I catch my brother’s gaze as he sits with a few of his friends. He quirks an eyebrow up at the two of us, and I mouth for him to save me. Of course the jerk does nothing but snicker.

He should have kept a straight fact though, for in a flash Ariana is over by him, and pulling him to his feet as well, hauling him over to where I’m still standing. “Really Ariana… must we do this in front of people that we know?” Luka whines coming to a halt next to me. The blond Dumbledore only fixes the pair of us with firm gazes that mean business.

Suddenly music is softly flowing into the pub, and more than a few people turn their confused gazes to us. After a second the familiar twang of the folk song comes to me, and I can’t help but let out a faint grin. Luka catches my gaze and shrugs his shoulders at me. At least Ariana is making us perform one of our more enjoyable past times.

The three of us split apart, and start moving in the traditional jig fashion, before combing, and dancing connected together. Those dancing lessons that the three of us went through weren’t all horrible. People started getting into the music and clapping to the beat. Some of the braver souls got up to join the three of us stomping our feet, and twirling in the correct places.

The grin on Ariana’s face totally made up for the initial feeling of public embarrassment. She looks much happier than she has been for the past couple of days. When it comes to the partner swing, before some boy could grab onto my hand, Ariana swoops in, and moves us fluidly into the swing. I laugh and raise a challenging eyebrow at the girl.

Her cheeks tinge pink, but the Hufflepuff says nothing in return. By the end of the fourth song I’m panting and too tired to consider dancing another song. The music stops playing and a healthy round of applause goes up from the patrons. I turn to Ariana and see that happy glint in her eye, yet she’s panting harder than I am.

“As always a lovely time Lady Ariana.” I say with a swooping bow. Ariana flushes and gives me a curtsy. Luka comes over to me, and we high five each other with grins on our faces.

“Still have it Pendragon.” I say cheekily. Luka grins and spins on his heel.

“You too Pendragon.” He replies, and with that I make my way back over to my table and collapse into the booth beside Harry who had joined Hermione and Ron while I was away.

“Have fun Jame?” Ron asks with a smirk on his face. I shoot him a dirty glare, and practically drain the rest of my butterbeer in one gulp.

“You did look rather comfortable out there Jamie.” Hermione says with a smile. I roll my eyes at her, muttering under my breath about this being the pick on Jamie day.

Suddenly Harry tugs on my arm and gestures to the front door. Rita Skeeter has just entered. She is wearing banana-yellow robes today; her long nails are painted shocking pink, and she is accompanied by her paunchy photographer. She brings drinks, and she and the photographer make their way through the crowds to a table nearby, Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I glaring at her as she approaches. She is talking fast and looking very satisfied about something.

“. . . didn’t seem very keen to talk to us, did he, Bozo? Now, why would that be, do you think? And what’s he doing with a pack of goblins in tow anyway? Showing them the sights . . . what nonsense . . . he was always a bad liar. Reckon something’s up? Think we should do a bit of digging? ‘Disgraced Ex-Head of Magical Games and Sports, Ludo Bagman . . . ’ Snappy start to a sentence, Bozo — we just need to find a story to fit it —”

“Trying to ruin someone else’s life?” says Harry loudly. I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from snorting in laughter at his audacity.

A few people look around. Rita Skeeter’s eyes widen behind her jeweled spectacles as she sees who has spoken.

“Harry!” she says, beaming. “How lovely! Why don’t you come and join — ?”

“I wouldn’t come near you with a ten-foot broomstick,” says Harry furiously. “What did you do that to Hagrid for, eh?” Rita Skeeter raises her heavily penciled eyebrows.

“Our readers have a right to the truth, Harry. I am merely doing my —”

“Who cares if he’s half-giant?” Harry shouts. “There’s nothing wrong with him!” I nod my head firm and cross my arms over my chest. There’s nothing that I despise more than someone who thinks that they’re better than someone else just because of the blood running thought their veins.

The whole pub has gone very quiet. Madam Rosmerta is staring over from behind the bar, apparently oblivious to the fact that the flagon she is filling with mead is overflowing.

Rita Skeeter’s smile flickers very slightly, but she hitches it back almost at once; she snaps open her crocodile-skin handbag, pulls out her Quick-Quotes Quill, and says, “How about giving me an interview about the Hagrid you know, Harry? The man behind the muscles? Your unlikely friendship and the reasons behind it. Would you call him a father substitute?”

Hermione stands up very abruptly, her butterbeer clutched in her hand as though it is a grenade. Please Merlin let Hermione throw the butterbeer onto that pastel peacock.

“You horrible woman,” she says, through gritted teeth, “you don’t care, do you, anything for a story, and anyone will do, won’t they? Even Ludo Bagman —”

“Sit down, you silly little girl, and don’t talk about things you don’t understand,” says Rita Skeeter coldly, her eyes hardening as they fall on Hermione. “I know things about Ludo Bagman that would make your hair curl . . . not that it needs it —” she adds, eyeing Hermione’s bushy hair. That’s it.

“I’d be careful with what you claim Miss Skeeter. I once had a very famous professor who claimed to have known and been able to do many things, but rather unfortunately for him, his claims were false. I’d hate to see what happened to him happen to you as well Miss Skeeter, for you’ve messed with the wrong person.” I say lowly enough for her to hear. The quill under her spell shakes in fear.

“Let’s go,” says Hermione, “c’mon, Harry — Ron . . . Jamie!” Hermione grabs onto my arm and pulls me forcedly through the pub back out into the cold, which jars me out of my fury. I shiver violently, and Ron drapes my coat over my shoulders.

“I hate that woman.” I mutter slipping my arms through my cloak.

“She’ll be after you next, Hermione,” says Ron in a low and worried voice as we walk quickly back up the street.

“Let her try!” says Hermione defiantly; she is shaking with rage. “I’ll show her! Silly little girl, am I? Oh, I’ll get her back for this. First Harry, then Hagrid . . .”

“You don’t want to go upsetting Rita Skeeter,” says Ron nervously. “I’m serious, Hermione, she’ll dig up something on you —”

“My parents don’t read the Daily Prophet. She can’t scare me into hiding!” says Hermione, now striding along so fast that it is all Harry, Ron, and I can do to keep up with her. The last time I had seen Hermione in a rage like this, she had hit Draco Malfoy around the face. “And Hagrid isn’t hiding anymore! He should never have let that excuse for a human being upset him! Come on!”

Breaking into a run, she leads us all the way back up the road, through the gates flanked by winged boars, and up through the grounds to Hagrid’s cabin.

The curtains are still drawn, and we can hear Fang barking as we approach. “Hagrid!” Hermione shouts, pounding on his front door. “Hagrid, that’s enough! We know you’re in there! Nobody cares if your mum was a giantess, Hagrid! You can’t let that foul Skeeter woman do this to you! Hagrid, get out here, you’re just being —”

The door opens. Hermione starts, “About t — !” and then stops, very suddenly, because she finds herself face-to-face, not with Hagrid, but with Albus Dumbledore.

“Headmaster!” I cry surprised to see him there.

“Good afternoon,” he says pleasantly, smiling down at us.

“We — er — we wanted to see Hagrid,” says Hermione in a rather small voice.

“Yes, I surmised as much,” says Dumbledore, his eyes twinkling. “Why don’t you come in?”

“Oh . . . um . . . okay,” says Hermione. I give my best friend a slight push into the hut for she’s still shocked at having inadvertently yelling at Professor Dumbledore.

We all go into the cabin; Fang launches himself upon Harry the moment he enters, barking madly and trying to lick his ears. Harry fends off Fang and I look around.

Hagrid is sitting at his table, where there are two large mugs of tea. He looks a real mess. His face is blotchy, his eyes swollen, and he has gone to the other extreme where his hair is concerned; far from trying to make it behave, it now looks like a wig of tangled wire.

“Hi, Hagrid,” I say softly. Hagrid looks up.

“’Lo,” he says in a very hoarse voice.

“More tea, I think,” says Dumbledore, closing the door behind Harry, Ron, Hermione, and me drawing out his wand, and twiddling it; a revolving tea tray appears in midair along with a plate of cakes. Dumbledore magicks the tray onto the table, and everybody sits down. There is a slight pause, and then Dumbledore says, “Did you by any chance hear what Miss Granger was shouting, Hagrid?”

Hermione goes slightly pink, but Dumbledore smiles at her and continues, “Hermione, Jamie, Harry, and Ron still seem to want to know you, judging by the way they were attempting to break down the door.”

“Of course we still want to know you!” Harry says, staring at Hagrid. “You don’t think anything that Skeeter cow — sorry, Professor,” he adds quickly, looking at Dumbledore.

“I have gone temporarily deaf and haven’t any idea what you said, Harry,” says Dumbledore, twiddling his thumbs and staring at the ceiling.

“Er — right,” says Harry sheepishly. “I just meant — Hagrid, how could you think we’d care what that — woman — wrote about you?” Two fat tears leaked out of Hagrid’s beetle-black eyes and fell slowly into his tangled beard.

“Come on Hagrid. That horrid woman has written more than a few articles on my family and no one takes what she says all that seriously. Besides you’re the best Care of Magical Creature professor that I’ve ever had! I haven’t almost died in days!” I exclaim.

“Living proof of what I’ve been telling you, Hagrid,” says Dumbledore, still looking carefully up at the ceiling. “I have shown you the letters from the countless parents who remember you from their own days here, telling me in no uncertain terms that if I sacked you, they would have something to say about it —”

“Not all of ’em,” says Hagrid hoarsely. “Not all of ’em wan’ me ter stay.”

“Really, Hagrid, if you are holding out for universal popularity, I’m afraid you will be in this cabin for a very long time,” says Dumbledore, now peering sternly over his half-moon spectacles. “Not a week has passed since I became headmaster of this school when I haven’t had at least one owl complaining about the way I run it. But what should I do? Barricade myself in my study and refuse to talk to anybody?”

“Yeh — yeh’re not half-giant!” says Hagrid croakily.

“Hagrid, look what I’ve got for relatives!” Harry says furiously. “Look at the Dursleys!” I shudder thinking about those hideous excuses for human beings.

“An excellent point,” says Professor Dumbledore. “My own brother, Aberforth, was prosecuted for practicing inappropriate charms on a goat. It was all over the papers, but did Aberforth hide? No, he did not! He held his head high and went about his business as usual! Of course, I’m not entirely sure he can read, so that may not have been bravery. . . .”

“That’s not even the worst it can be Hagrid. I’m related to a murderer who killed most of my family. If that’s not a horrible relation then I don’t know what is.” I say softly. Everyone turns a pained look on me but I refuse to turn my gaze away from Hagrid.

“Come back and teach, Hagrid,” says Hermione quietly, “please come back, we really miss you.”

Hagrid gulps. More tears leak out down his cheeks and into his tangled beard.

Dumbledore stands up. “I refuse to accept your resignation, Hagrid, and I expect you back at work on Monday,” he says. “You will join me for breakfast at eight-thirty in the Great Hall. No excuses. Jamie a word if I may? Good afternoon to you all.”

With that Dumbledore exits the hut, and I nervously get up to follow behind him. As soon as the door to Hagrid hut closes the senior Dumbledore turns to regard me. “I wanted to talk about Augustus Jamie. I know that from a rather unfortunate circumstance you found out about him. I want to warn you Jamie about matters when it comes to your Uncle. His past is tied so closely to Riddle’s that if you attempt to find out what truly happened to your parents, that you may not like what you find.” Dumbledore warns me gently. I bite down on my lower lip hard to keep the questions from pouring out of me.

“Do you know what truly happened sir?” I ask him softly. Dumbledore glances at me and I can see from the look in his eyes that he knows more than he’s willing to tell me.

“I dare say that we will only ever know what really happened if Augustus himself ever chose to tell us himself. Now I best be getting back to the castle. Work never is far for Professors I’m afraid.” He tells me, and with that he starts up the hill to the castle. I stand there for a few minutes glaring at the ground underneath my feet, fighting the unruly feelings that keep popping up when I think about what happened to my family.

Suddenly there’s a hand on my arm, and I look up to see Harry giving me a worried look. “Come on then. Let’s get going. Dinner should be ready soon.” He tells me with a smile. We run to catch up with Hermione and Ron who are bickering, and I roll my eyes.

When we get to the Great Hall an uproar greets us as the Beauxbatons students are wearing Durmstrang uniforms, and the Durmstrang boys the Beauxbatons girls’ uniforms. All of the Hogwarts students clothes got swapped to be wearing robes of the opposite houses. Gryffindor and Hufflepuff have switched, and Ravenclaw and Slytherin switched as well. Ariana caught my eye and shook her head at the Gryffindor lion adorning her chest. I grinned back at her and pointed to the badger on mine. I have to admit that Ariana does look good in my house’s robes. At least something good came out of this evening, getting to watch Fleur Delacour faint from the stench in her baggy uniform.


	22. The Egg and the Eye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything you recognize is J.K. Rowling's. Except Jamie, Luka, and Ariana.

Chapter 22-The Egg and the Eye

 

So finally Harry decides that he should probably do something to figure out the clue that his golden egg holds, now that the second task is coming ever closer. Cedric Diggory had ended up giving Harry a vague clue about taking a bath with the egg, and gave him the password to the prefect’s bathroom so that he could have plenty of space and privacy while figuring this clue out.

Harry had been agonizing over whether to trust him for days before, I had finally hit him over the head demanding him to just go and take the bloody bath already. Little did I know that Harry would think it a good day to bring me along as well. To say that I was mortified of the thought was an understatement.

It took him about ten minutes to calm me down before Harry hastily explained that we would both be clothed in bathing suits so there was no real need to freak out. I hit him again because he had scared me, after that we both settled down to figure out the best way to sneak into the prefect’s bathroom without being seen. It was decided that we would go at night with the invisibility cloak, and the Marauder’s map.

That way we couldn’t be seen and we wouldn’t run into any unsuspecting people or evil cats that can survive paralysis. Hermione was very much against this whole plan. Well at least the part that involved breaking school rules, and involving me in the whole thing.

So it was pretty safe to say that she flat out refused to speak to me the whole afternoon leading up to the night in question. Ron was going to help in a small way. He wanted to come along as well, but Hermione had gotten on his case about the essay for Transfiguration that he still hadn’t completed, and that she would help him with it, if only to keep him from going along with us.

So on Thursday night I slipped on my ruby red bathing suit, and slipped my school clothes over it, while stuffing a towel into my rucksack. Hermione gave me one last pointed stare, and then with a harrumph she left the room. Quickly I shouldered my rucksack and bound down the staircase to the common room so that I could meet my friend.

When I finally stumbled into the common room I saw a nervous Harry shuffling his feet. I made my way over to him, and he threw the invisibility cloak over us without saying a word. I guess that Harry is anxious to get this all over with so that he can finally known what the second task is going to be about.

We made our way to the portrait hole, and this time it swung open because someone on the outside had given the password, giving us a plausible reason for the door opening, instead of invisible children. No, we couldn’t be having any of that could we? Ron was on the other side of the portrait looking rather morose while carrying the huge textbook that was needed to in fact write the Transfiguration paper.

I’m very pleased that I had succumbed to Hermione’s incessant warning to actually write the paper earlier now. Ron stares at the spot where he thinks we are, and mutters ‘good luck’ as we pass by. It is very awkward going tonight for Harry thrusts the large golden egg at me to carry, and holds up the map so that he can figure out where to go, and who to avoid.

I can’t help but grin when I spy Fred and George’s names in the kitchen of the castle. Luckily for us though, the moonlit corridors are silent and empty so we don’t have to worry too much about being caught. Finally after quite a long and silent journey we make it to the statue of Boris the Bewildered wearing his gloves on the wrong hands.

Harry yanks my arm to a door nearby, almost causing me to drop the bloody egg on my foot, and with a few muttered curses I manage to escape the possible life threatening injury. You wouldn’t want to be dropping solid gold on your foot now would you?

Harry takes a deep breath and mutters, “Pine Fresh.” We wait in baited breath for a few moments until the door swings open. Harry and I slip inside, and I throw the invisibility cloak off of me, for I’m afraid that I’m going to suffocate. We’re getting too big now to be sharing the cloak when it’s only just the two of us. It’s kind of sad when I think about that.

I take a look around and determine that becoming a prefect would be a great thing, if only to just use this bathroom. Though I can always worm the password out of Hermione, since I know that she’s going to become the Gryffindor Prefect.

“Can you believe this place?” I ask Harry softly, almost afraid to break the peaceful quiet.

“No.” Harry responds breathlessly. The bathroom is softly lit, by a splendid candle-filled chandelier, and everything is made of white marble, including what looks like an empty, rectangular swimming pool sunk into the middle of the floor. About a hundred golden taps stand all around the pool’s edges, each with a differently colored jewel set into its handle.

There is also a diving board. Long white linen curtains hang at the windows; a large pile of fluffy white towels sit in a corner, and there is a single golden-framed painting on the wall. It features a blonde mermaid who is fast asleep on a rock, her long hair over her face. It flutters every time she snores.

I don’t think that I’m going to ever want to leave this bathroom again. Maybe there’s a nook in which I can fit a camp bed around here somewhere? “Come on then. We best not waste anymore time.” Harry says seriously. With a sigh I nod my head, and pass my friend the golden egg.

Harry stares at it for a moment like he can make it reveal all its secrets without him having to go for a dip in the luxurious bath. “This bathroom is amazing though. This is like the king of all bathrooms. I need to try a few of those taps.” I say moving over to one of the blue taps.

“Jamie!” Harry says grabbing my arm and steering me towards the other end of the bath. “We’re here to solve the egg, not play around in the bath. Besides… I’m not so sure about this.”

I heave a sigh and roll my eyes at him. “Seriously Harry, I don’t think that Cedric has anything out for you here with this one. It’s just water. Honestly, what could it hurt to try at this point? You haven’t figured out any other way on your own.” I tell him, and Harry’s scowl deepens further.

“Now come on let’s try it.” I say and pull Harry over to one of the taps. I turn open the nozzle, and suddenly hot soapy water starts pouring into the large bath. It no regular bubbles though. Huge pink and blue bubbles the size of footballs begin to fill the tub. Harry turns on another with fascination as thick white bubbles like snow pour into the mixture as well. With a shared grin, Harry and I run around turning on different taps for different mixtures and smells, until the giant tub is all filled.

“Well I think that it looks rather brilliant don’t you?” I ask him. Harry laughs and nods his head. With unspoken word we each turn to a different corner to start shedding our clothes so that we can get in. Once my shirt is folded, I run over to the diving board, and jump into the bath. The warm heavenly smelling soapy water surrounds me, and I want to sigh.

Once I surface in a cloud of bubbles I see Harry standing on the side of the tub in blue trunks looking at me with an amused grin on his face. “Having fun are we?” Harry asks me. My only response is to splash him with sudsy water. Harry narrows his eyes at me, though he could be squinting for he doesn’t have his glasses on.

Suddenly he’s flying through the air, arms wrapped around his legs cannonballing into the water beside me, drenching me. When he surfaces I’m still sputtering. “Jerk.” I growl at him, splashing water in his face. We splash around for a few minutes forgetting all about being quiet and working on the egg. Boy is Ron going to be sore when he finds out all that we are getting to do tonight while he writes his paper.

Finally we calm down, and make our way over to the ledge where Harry left his Golden egg. It seems to be gleaming with hundreds of shiny lights now that it’s reflecting the water. “So… what do we do now? I mean, technically we’re taking a bath with the thing now.” I say moving a strand of wet brown hair out of my face. Harry bites his lip and grabs the egg, turning around to hold it out over the water.

“Well there’s only one real way to find out now.” Harry says opening the golden egg one again. I have only half a second’s warning before the wailing, screeching sound echoed off all the corners of the lofty bathroom. If Filch hadn’t managed to hear us before, he was bound to now.

“Close the bloody thing!” I shout trying to be heard over the god-awful noise. Harry scrambles for a second before finally managing to shut the lids again. We both heave a sigh of relief once the terrible noise is gone, only to be filled by the ringing of my ears. That’s another thing to add to my list of dangers at Hogwarts, loss of hearing due to mystical, magical eggs.

“I’d try putting it in the water if I were you.” A voice says causing Harry and I to jump practically a foot out of the water, and lose the egg. There’s the very glum looking ghost sitting cross-legged on top of one of the taps. What on earth is Myrtle doing here, and why does she know what to do with the egg?

“Myrtle! What are you doing here? I could be naked!” Harry cries trying to move more of the bubbles over his pale chest, and I can’t help but snicker a little bit at the action.

“You’re not though are you? You wouldn’t be with her in here.” The ghost says casting a disdainful look my way. I roll my eyes at her. Is this seriously how its going to be between us again. I thought that we had actually been able to make some headway through the whole ‘I’m a ghost and cranky’ thing.

“Besides, you haven’t been to see me in ages.” Myrtle says in a pouty voice her gaze still fixed firmly on my friend. I have to snicker that that though. Harry has an admirer and that admirer is Moaning Myrtle the ghost. Even I can figure that out and find the hilarity of the situation. To cover my laugh, I pretend to choke on some bubbles, but Harry still glares at me.

“Yeah . . . well . . .” says Harry, bending his knees slightly, just to make absolutely sure Myrtle can’t see anything but his head, “I’m not supposed to come into your bathroom, am I? It’s a girls’ one.”

“You didn’t used to care,” says Myrtle miserably. “You used to be in there all the time.” Well that’s an over statement in my opinion. It was only a few times in second year and that was only because we were trying to figure out who was the heir of Slytherin.

“I got told off for going in there.” Harry says desperately. That’s actually true for I’m sure that if Percy were still here that he would have still been on Harry’s and Ron’s cases for even walking near a girls bathroom.

“Oh . . . I see . . .” says Myrtle, picking at a spot on her chin in a morose sort of way. “Well . . . anyway . . . I’d try the egg in the water. That’s what Cedric Diggory did.”

“Have you been spying on him too?” says Harry indignantly. “What d’you do, sneak up here in the evenings to watch the prefects take baths?”

“Sometimes,” says Myrtle, rather slyly, “but I’ve never come out to speak to anyone before.”

I can’t help but gag into the bubbles of the thought of Myrtle watching all the prefect boys in the bath. A shiver runs down my spine and I shudder. “I’m honored.” Harry says darkly, before turning to look at me. “All right then… lets give this a go.”

I watch as Harry lowers the egg under the water. Instead of the horrifying screech that I was expecting, a gurgled melody was heard. “You need to put your head under too you know.” Myrtle says with a grin. I might be seeing things, but I think that she’s enjoying bossing Harry around a little too much.

With a glare at Myrtle, he turns to me, and counts off with his fingers. On two I take a deep breath and submerge my head underwater with him.

“Come seek us where our voices sound,

We cannot sing above the ground,

And while you’re searching, ponder this:

We’ve taken what you’ll sorely miss,

An hour long you’ll have to look,

And to recover what we took,

But past an hour — the prospect’s black,

Too late, it’s gone, it won’t come back.”

 

A shudder runs through me, and I kick up through the water to get away from the creepy voices calling out to me from the water. That does not sound good, not at all. What in Merlin’s saggy pants is coming up now? Harry surfaces inches away from me and I bite my lower lip in worry, seeing the dark look on his face.

“I’m going back down again… I need to have this thing down.” Harry tells me before gulping air, and diving back under. I tread in my spot next to him, not wanting to go back down again, and listen to the ghastly message.

“He has a rather cute bum— don’t you think?” Myrtle says suddenly, and I choke. I can feel heat racing to my cheeks. I really rather not think about anything of Harry’s down there. Myrtle cackles at the embarrassed look on my face, and I know that she partially said it just to make me feel uncomfortable.

“Honestly Myrtle I don’t need to hear about your creepy fascination with my friend.” I moan into my hands, attempting to wish away the awkward situation that I suddenly find myself in. A few minutes later and about four go arounds for Harry, he finally surfaces for the final time, snapping the egg shut when he does so.

“I’ve got to go and look for people who can’t use their voices above the ground. . . .” he says slowly. “Er . . . who could that be?” I scoff, and role my eyes at him, I’ve had some time to think this all through.

“Come on Harry, the question obviously has to do with something underwater. Think lake.” I tell him, sending an annoyed splash his way. Harry glares at me while Myrtle laughs again.

“That’s what Cedric Diggory thought as well.” She sighs. Harry grabs his glasses, and shoves them onto his face, before turning to look at the ghost head on.

“Myrtle does anything else happen to live in the lake aside from the giant squid?” Harry asks her. Myrtle heaves a dramatic sigh.

“Oh all sorts,” she says. “I sometimes go down there . . . sometimes don’t have any choice, if someone flushes my toilet when I’m not expecting it. . . .”

Harry and I share a shudder, and I wait for him to figure out what I finally had. I watch with a triumphant smirk as he finally looks up at the painting of the slumbering mermaid on the wall.

“Myrtle, there don’t happen to be merpeople in there are there?” Harry asks her half sounding like he doesn’t want the answer to the question.

“Finally.” I mutter swiping at some of the bubbles.

“Oooh, very good,” she says, her thick glasses twinkling, “it took Diggory much longer than that! And that was with her awake too” — Myrtle jerks her head towards the mermaid with an expression of great dislike on her glum face — “giggling and showing off and flashing her fins. . . .”

“That’s it, isn’t it?” says Harry excitedly. “The second task’s to go and find the merpeople in the lake and . . . and . . .” I watch as Harry’s face falls, and fills with dread.

“Jamie, how am I going to breath under water?” Harry demands panicking. I bite my lower lip and swim a little closer to him.

“Breathe Harry, we’ll figure something out. I promise you, there’s no way that I’m going to let you down. I’ve invested way too much time in keeping you alive in this thing for that to happen.” I tell him. Harry glares at me.

“Well bathtime’s over. You best not be looking Myrtle even if I’m in trousers.” Harry calls out to her. I roll my eyes and clamber up out of the tub reveling in the still warm, and heavenly smelling.

“Will you come and visit me in my bathroom again sometime?” Moaning Myrtle asks mournfully as Harry picks up the Invisibility Cloak.

“Maybe.” Harry tells her noncommittally once we both have our clothes back on, and we’re slipping into the empty hall to get away from her. We both heave a sigh of relief, that is until a loud intake of breath breaks the silence. I swing around an excuse fit for a professor on my lips, but freeze when silky blond hair meets my gaze.

I have no idea why Ariana Dumbledore is out of her dormitory at midnight, but the hurt, accusatory look on her face as she looks at the two of us who are still wet is enough to make my heart constrict painfully.

“Ariana…” I start but she puts up her hand to stop the explanation.

“Save it. We were never here got it?” She snaps, and with a tight spin she disappears down the hair with her blond ponytail being the last thing that I see. Harry scratches his head, and glances back at me.

“You have any idea what all that was about?” Harry asks me confusedly. I bite my lip and shake my head, allowing him to throw the invisibility cloak over us so we have no more problems like that.

“Whatever it was she’s not very happy with me.” I mutter sadly. I never can seem to do the right thing whenever Ariana is involved can I? Harry pulls out the map, and we look to make sure that no one is near us. The closest is Peeves bouncing around the trophy room a floor above us, but something strange catches my eye.

“Why is a Bartemius Crouch wandering around Snape’s office?” I ask quietly not liking what that was all about. I knew no one of that name, and I happen to know a lot of names around here.

“I don’t know but I need to find out.” Harry says. I sigh and bite my lip.

“I think that I’m going to sit this adventure out Harry. I’ve got some thinking to do about the whole can’t breathe underwater thing. You go. I’ll be fine making my way back to the common room. Don’t worry about me.” I tell him quickly slipping out of the cloak, and darting off through the halls without giving him a chance to call for me.

As much as I may care about Harry, I’ve had enough adventure and rule breaking for one night. As I make my way back to the tower, I can’t help but mull over what exactly had gone down with Ariana. She was acting so strangely. The last time she caught me lurking in the halls after hours, she had just teased me some. Now it was like I had personally transfigured her grandfather into a toad!

With a sigh I give the Fat Lady the password, (ignoring her disapproving look) and climb into the common room. I have to bite back a grin at seeing an increasingly frazzled Ron scribble furiously onto his paper, while Hermione reads her own textbook, looking at him every once and a while.

Maybe I can save Ron by making them focus on something else, research about mermaids and ways to survive without air underwater. No thinking about Ariana Dumbledore… yep, definitely no thinking about her. Merlin’s pants I’m screwed.


	23. The Second Task

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything you recognize is J.K. Rowling's.

Chapter 23- The Second Task

 

“You said you’d already worked out that egg clue!” says Hermione indignantly.

“Keep your voice down!” says Harry crossly. “I just need to — sort of fine-tune it, all right?”

He, Ron, Hermione, and I are sitting at the very back of the Charms class with a table to ourselves. We are supposed to be practicing the opposite of the Summoning Charm today — the Banishing Charm. Owing to the potential for nasty accidents when objects kept flying across the room, Professor Flitwick has given each student a stack of cushions on which to practice, the theory being that these won’t hurt anyone if they go off target. It was a good theory, but it isn’t working very well. Neville’s aim is so poor that he keeps accidentally sending much heavier things flying across the room — Professor Flitwick, for instance.

I was getting bored with the charm by now, having managed to banish all the pillows that I had been given, and even had some fun with a little target practice. Now, I’m forced to sit here and listen to my friends bicker amongst themselves, while I stew over the rejection that I had gotten this morning at breakfast from Ariana. Apparently whatever was bugging her last night was still bugging her today as well.

“Just forget the egg for a minute, all right?” Harry hisses as Professor Flitwick goes whizzing resignedly past them, landing on top of a large cabinet. “I’m trying to tell you about Snape and Moody. . . .”

This class is an ideal cover for a private conversation, as everyone is having far too much fun to pay us any attention. Harry has been recounting his adventures of the previous night in whispered installments for the last half hour. I had been tuning out the parts where I was involved not needing a recap of the disaster at the end of the night.

“Snape said Moody’s searched his office as well?” Ron whispers, his eyes alight with interest as he Banishes a cushion with a sweep of his wand (it soars into the air and knocks Parvati’s hat off). “What . . . d’you reckon Moody’s here to keep an eye on Snape as well as Karkaroff?” Now that was definitely an interesting thought, and would be slightly worrisome if we actually had proof to back that up.

“Well, I dunno if that’s what Dumbledore asked him to do, but he’s definitely doing it,” says Harry, waving his wand without paying much attention, so that his cushion does an odd sort of belly flop off the desk. “Moody said Dumbledore only lets Snape stay here because he’s giving him a second chance or something. . . .”

“What?” says Ron, his eyes widening, his next cushion spinning high into the air, ricocheting off the chandelier, and dropping heavily onto Flitwick’s desk. “Harry . . . maybe Moody thinks Snape put your name in the Goblet of Fire!”

“Oh Ron,” says Hermione, shaking her head skeptically, “we thought Snape was trying to kill Harry before, and it turned out he was saving Harry’s life, remember?”

“If Snape really wanted to kill Harry he would have just done him in with a curse on the first day.” I supply unhelpfully as Harry and Ron glare at me. Hermione merely rolls her eyes at my brusque statement.

Hermione Banishes her pillow with a swish of her wand and it soars into the box in front of Flitwick’s desk where we’re all supposed to be aiming. “I don’t care what Moody says,” Hermione goes on. “Dumbledore’s not stupid. He was right to trust Hagrid and Professor Lupin, even though loads of people wouldn’t have given them jobs, so why shouldn’t he be right about Snape, even if Snape is a bit —”

“— evil,” says Ron promptly. “Come on, Hermione, why are all these Dark wizard catchers searching his office, then?”

“Why has Mr. Crouch been pretending to be ill?” demands Hermione, ignoring Ron. “It’s a bit funny, isn’t it, that he can’t manage to come to the Yule Ball, but he can get up here in the middle of the night when he wants to?”

“I dunno maybe Snape has a tonic squirrelled away that could make him feel better.” I say offhandedly. Hermione rolls her eyes at me again.

“Jamie you don’t break into people’s offices just because you’re sick. You ask first.” She tells me attempting to sort out some moral issues. Now it is my turn to roll my eyes back at her.

“You just don’t like Crouch because of that elf, Winky,” says Ron, sending a cushion soaring into the window.

“You just want to think Snape’s up to something,” fires Hermione, sending her cushion zooming neatly into the box.

“I just want to know what Snape did with his first chance, if he’s on his second one,” says Harry grimly, and his cushion, to his very great surprise, flies straight across the room and lands neatly on top of Hermione’s.

“I for one would deeply like to know when everyone decided that it would be great fun to wander the corridors after dark.” I grumble, and Harry sighs wishing that I could get off the subject of our surprise visitor last night. 

* * *

 

That night Harry made good on his promise to write to Sirius, while the rest of us got started on the whole, ‘Harry can’t breathe underwater, oh crap’ situation. I think its pretty safe to say that the only ideas that have been thrown out there so far are ridiculous and are never going to work.

Not to mention that the 24 of February is drawing closer everyday. Ron quite likes the idea of using the Summoning Charm again — Harry explained about Aqua-Lungs, and Ron can’t see why Harry shouldn’t Summon one from the nearest Muggle town.

Hermione squashes this plan by pointing out that, in the unlikely event that Harry manages to learn how to operate an Aqua-Lung within the set limit of an hour, he is sure to be disqualified for breaking the International Code of Wizarding Secrecy — it is too much to hope that no Muggles will spot an Aqua-Lung zooming across the countryside to Hogwarts.

“Of course, the ideal solution would be for you to Transfigure yourself into a submarine or something,” Hermione says. “If only we’d done human Transfiguration already! But I don’t think we start that until sixth year, and it can go badly wrong if you don’t know what you’re doing. . . .”

“Yeah, I don’t fancy walking around with a periscope sticking out of my head,” says Harry. “I s’pose I could always attack someone in front of Moody; he might do it for me. . . .”

“I don’t think he’d let you choose what you wanted to be turned into, though,” says Hermione seriously. “No, I think your best chance is some sort of charm.”

“Well there are plenty of charms that might do the trick. I’ve seen some pretty neat ones in my books.” I say grabbing one of my advanced charm books and beginning to flip through it rapidly.

Unfortunately luck didn’t seem to be on our side this time round. There were nothing in my books, the library, the restricted section, or it seemed anywhere in Hogwarts. Time seemed to be speeding up as well along with our panic. It seemed like there was only a week left until the task yesterday, and now there are only three days left. I haven’t had anytime to myself, for I’ve been desperately helping Harry attempt to find some way to keep him alive.

With two days left, Harry starts to go off food again. The only good thing about breakfast on Monday is the return of the brown owl he sent to Sirius. Harry pulls off the parchment, unrolled it, and sees the shortest letter Sirius has ever written to him.

Send date of next Hogsmeade weekend by return owl.

 

Harry turns the parchment over and looks at the back, hoping to see something else, but it is blank.

“Weekend after next,” whispers Hermione, who was reading the note over Harry’s shoulder just like I was. “Here — take my quill and send this owl back straight away.”

“Maybe Sirius has faith in you to be able to succeed in this upcoming challenge.” I say hopefully trying to keep my friend’s spirits up even though mine are loitering around in the dungeons right about now.

“What’s he want to know about the next Hogsmeade weekend for?” asks Ron.

“Dunno,” says Harry dully. It seems like the momentary happiness that flared inside him at the sight of the owl has died. “Come on . . . Care of Magical Creatures.”

“Cheer up Harry, maybe Hagrid will know of something.” I tell him skipping into place beside him. I glance towards the Ravenclaw table to see if I can catch a glance of Luka who I hadn’t seen in a while, but my heart twists at seeing him talking very animatedly to Ariana Dumbledore. They were standing rather close together…

“Jamie.” Hermione says placing her hand on my shoulder, causing me to jump. “Sorry, you were just spaced out there, are you feeling well?” Hermione asks glancing towards the table where I was looking.

“Yeah, ‘M fine. Don’t need to worry Hermione, come on… we’ll be late for Hagrid, and someone’s going to have to stop Harry from throwing the competition by getting kicked in the head by a unicorn.” I tell her hastily, moving out of the Great Hall.

Whether Hagrid is trying to make up for the Blast-Ended Skrewts, or because there are now only two skrewts left, or because he is trying to prove he can do anything that Professor Grubbly-Plank could, I don’t know, but Hagrid has been continuing her lessons on unicorns ever since he’s returned to work. It turns out that Hagrid knows quite as much about unicorns as he does about monsters, though it is clear that he finds their lack of poisonous fangs disappointing.

Today he has managed to capture two unicorn foals. Unlike full-grown unicorns, they are pure gold. Parvati and Lavender go into transports of delight at the sight of them, and even Pansy Parkinson has to work hard to conceal how much she likes them. I have to admit that they do look pretty cool, but it’s slightly unnerving how shiny they are.

I wonder how they manage not to become so many other creatures’ prey? I might have to ask Hagrid about that. “Easier ter spot than the adults,” Hagrid tells the class. “They turn silver when they’re abou’ two years old, an’ they grow horns at aroun’ four. Don’ go pure white till they’re full grown, ’round about seven. They’re a bit more trustin’ when they’re babies . . . don’ mind boys so much. . . . C’mon, move in a bit, yeh can pat ’em if yeh want . . . give ’em a few o’ these sugar lumps. . . .

“You okay, Harry?” Hagrid mutters, moving aside slightly, while most of the others swarm around the baby unicorns, leaving Hagrid, Harry, and I alone.

“Yeah,” says Harry.

“Jus’ nervous, eh?” says Hagrid.

“Bit,” replies Harry.

“Try loads.” I snort to Harry’s glare.

“Harry,” says Hagrid, clapping a massive hand on his shoulder, so that Harry’s knees buckle under its weight, “I’d’ve bin worried before I saw yeh take on tha’ Horntail, but I know now yeh can do anythin’ yeh set yer mind ter. I’m not worried at all. Yeh’re goin’ ter be fine. Got yer clue worked out, haven’ yeh?”

Harry nods, but I can tell from the look on his face though that he wants to confess his dire situation to Hagrid. The giant of a man helps everyone with their problems so this shouldn’t be any different. I nudge Harry in the ribs and gesture for him to speak, but before he can Hagrid beams a big smile.

“Yeh’re goin’ ter win,” Hagrid growls, patting Harry’s shoulder again, so that Harry actually feels himself sink a couple of inches into the soft ground. “I know it. I can feel it. Yeh’re goin’ ter win, Harry.”

I watch as my friend clamps his mouth shut, and puts on a grim smile before turning to look at the unicorns like he’s fascinated with them like the rest. Before I can go after my friend, I feel a heavy hand on my shoulder. I look up at Hagrid who now has a solemn look on his face.

“Yer goin’ ter look after him right?” Hagrid says quietly so that no one overhears us. I bite my lip, and nod solemnly to the man. “Good… good.” He says before stomping over to the students and the foals. 

* * *

 

The evening before the second task was not a pleasant one. While everyone else in the castle was festive and rambunctious Harry, Hermione, Ron, and I are holed up in the library desperately looking for any last minute miracles that might save our friend from being drowned in the lake tomorrow.

“I don’t reckon it can be done,” says Ron’s voice flatly from the other side of the table. “There’s nothing. Nothing. Closest was that thing to dry up puddles and ponds, that Drought Charm, but that was nowhere near powerful enough to drain the lake.”

“There must be something,” Hermione mutters, moving a candle closer to her. Her eyes are so tired she was poring over the tiny print of Olde and Forgotten Bewitchments and Charmes with her nose about an inch from the page. “They’d never have set a task that was undoable.”

“They have,” counters Ron. “Harry, just go down to the lake tomorrow, right, stick your head in, yell at the merpeople to give back whatever they’ve nicked, and see if they chuck it out. Best you can do, mate.” Harry looks rather dejected after that plan of action.

I sigh and rub my hands over my face trying to see if that will wake me up from this nightmare that I currently find myself stuck in. My friend is going to drown tomorrow, if I don’t manage to pull some kind of miracle out of my hat.

“There’s a way of doing it!” Hermione says crossly. “There just has to be!” She seems to be taking the library’s lack of useful information on the subject as a personal insult; it has never failed her before.

“I know what I should have done,” says Harry, resting, facedown, on Saucy Tricks for Tricky Sorts. “I should’ve learned to be an Animagus like Sirius.” An Animagus is a wizard who can transform into an animal.

“Yeah, you could’ve turned into a goldfish any time you wanted!” says Ron.

“Would a goldfish actually be helpful in this competition?” I wonder aloud.

“Or a frog,” yawns Harry. He looks exhausted.

“How would you hold onto anything?” I ponder again.

“It takes years to become an Animagus, and then you have to register yourself and everything,” says Hermione vaguely, now squinting down the index of Weird Wizarding Dilemmas and Their Solutions. “Professor McGonagall told us, remember . . . you’ve got to register yourself with the Improper Use of Magic Office . . . what animal you become, and your markings, so you can’t abuse it. . . .”

“Hermione, I was joking,” says Harry wearily. “I know I haven’t got a chance of turning into a frog by tomorrow morning. . . .”

“Oh this is no use,” Hermione says, snapping shut Weird Wizarding Dilemmas. I jump in shock at the sudden loud noise, and the fact that Hermione is actually giving up on books and the library. “Who on earth wants to make their nose hair grow into ringlets?”

I cough to cover up my chuckle of laughter. I may be dead tired but I can still find things hilarious. “I wouldn’t mind,” says Fred Weasley’s voice. “Be a talking point, wouldn’t it?”

Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I look up. Fred and George have just emerged from behind some bookshelves. I smile at them merrily, happy to see my redheaded twins again.

“What’re you two doing here?” Ron asks.

“Good point I don’t think I’ve ever seen you two ever voluntarily set foot in the library before.” I say narrowing my eyes at them. The boys hold their hands up to placate me.

“Looking for you,” says George. “McGonagall wants you, Ron. And you, Hermione.” I furrow my brow at that. Why only them?

“Why?” asks Hermione, looking surprised.

“Dunno . . . she was looking a bit grim, though,” says Fred.

“We’re supposed to take you down to her office,” explains George. The four of us share a worried look. Nothing more can go wrong than it already is. I don’t think that we could honestly suffer another set back at the moment.

“We’ll meet you back in the common room,” Hermione tells Harry and me as she gets up to go with Ron — both of them look very anxious. “Bring as many of these books as you can, okay?”

“Right,” says Harry uneasily. By eight o’clock, Madam Pince has extinguished all the lamps and comes to chivvy Harry and me out of the library. Staggering under the weight of as many books as we can carry, we return to the Gryffindor common room, pull a table into a corner, and continue to search. There is nothing in Madcap Magic for Wacky Warlocks . . . nothing in A Guide to Medieval Sorcery . . . not one mention of underwater exploits in An Anthology of Eighteenth-Century Charms, or in Dreadful Denizens of the Deep, or Powers You Never Knew You Had and What to Do with Them Now You’ve Wised Up.

The words are beginning to spin in front of me I’ve been staring at so many pages. Suddenly Harry closes one of the books with a loud thump, waking me up, and startling Crookshanks as he stands up. “That’s it back to the library. There must be something there for us to find.” Harry mutters, looking somewhat like a madman.

He disappears up to his dorm and comes down with the cloak. “You coming Jamie?” He asks me distractedly, his eyes bloodshot as I know mine must be. With a stifled yawn, and a nod of my head, I slip under the cloak beside Harry, ready to go and spend the night in the library. If only Luka could see me now.

* * *

 

The wind is whipping through my hair as I soar around the Quidditch pitch. The quaffle is tucked securely under my arm, and I’m rolling left and right around opposing players knowing that none of them can touch me. Just as I’m about to rear back and the quaffle loose at one of the posts, reality comes crashing back, in the form of a poke to my cheek.

That does the trick in waking me from my wonderful dream only to be shocked by the large bulbous eyes staring back at me. With a small jump I detach from the water charms book I had been resting on. “Dobby!” I cry blinking rapidly to adjust to the fact that I’m not in my bed in the dorm, but rather in the library.

An equally bleary looking Harry is groaning from his place beside me. Yes, that’s right we fell asleep looking for something to save Harry last night. With rapidly falling spirits I realize that we still had yet to find anything to help him. This was not going to be good.

“Harry Potter needs to hurry!” squeaks Dobby. “The second task starts in ten minutes, and Harry Potter —”

“Ten minutes?” I croak. “Ten — ten minutes?” I look down at my watch. Dobby is right. It is twenty past nine. A large, dead weight seems to fall through my chest into my stomach. I look at Harry, and see the crushed look on his face as well. We’ve run out of time.

“Hurry, Harry Potter!” squeaks Dobby, plucking at Harry’s sleeve. “You is supposed to be down by the lake with the other champions, sir!”

“It’s too late, Dobby,” Harry says hopelessly. “I’m not doing the task, I don’t know how —”

“Harry Potter will do the task!” squeaks the elf. “Dobby knew Harry had not found the right book, so Dobby did it for him!”

“What?” says Harry. “But you don’t know what the second task is —”

“Dobby knows, sir! Harry Potter has to go into the lake and find his Wheezy —” Wait a minute find his Wheezy? Oh, I do not like the sound of that. Please tell me that the reason Ron and Hermione disappeared on us is not the reason that I think it is.

“Find my what?” Harry demands.

“— and take his Wheezy back from the merpeople!”

“What’s a Wheezy?”

“Your Wheezy, sir, your Wheezy — Wheezy who is giving Dobby his sweater!” Dobby plucks at the shrunken maroon sweater he is now wearing over his shorts.

“What?” Harry gasps. “They’ve got . . . they’ve got Ron?”

“This is really not good.” I say jumping to my feet, and jamming my feet back into my shoes. Why on earth would Hermione go missing as well?

“The thing Harry Potter will miss most, sir!” squeaks Dobby. “‘But past an hour —’”

“— ‘the prospect’s black,’” Harry recites, staring, horror-struck, at the elf. “‘Too late, it’s gone, it won’t come back.’ Dobby — what’ve I got to do?”

“You has to eat this, sir!” squeaks the elf, and he puts his hand in the pocket of his shorts and draws out a ball of what looked like slimy, grayish-green rat tails. “Right before you go into the lake, sir — gillyweed!”

I cover my mouth with my hand, trying to keep my empty stomach from riling against me. That has to be some of the most disgusting looking plants that I have ever seen before.

“What’s it do?” Harry asks, staring at the gillyweed.

“Besides being disgusting.” I supply.

“It will make Harry Potter breathe underwater, sir!”

“Dobby,” says Harry frantically, “listen — are you sure about this?” We both can’t quite forget that the last time Dobby tried to “help” him, Harry had ended up with no bones in his right arm.

“Dobby is quite sure, sir!” says the elf earnestly. “Dobby hears things, sir, he is a house-elf, he goes all over the castle as he lights the fires and mops the floors. Dobby heard Professor McGonagall and Professor Moody in the staffroom, talking about the next task. . . . Dobby cannot let Harry Potter lose his Wheezy!”

That is enough for us. With a quick shout of thanks at Dobby, Harry grabs the gillyweed, and we tear out of the library. Now it’s a race against time to get him to the competition before it starts.

We sprint along the corridor and down the stairs, three at a time. The entrance hall contains a few last-minute stragglers, all leaving the Great Hall after breakfast and heading through the double oak doors to watch the second task. They stare as Harry, and I flash past, sending Colin and Dennis Creevey flying as we leap down the stone steps and out onto the bright, chilly grounds.

As we pound down the lawn we see that the seats that encircled the dragons’ enclosure in November are now ranged along the opposite bank, rising in stands that are packed to the bursting point and reflect in the lake below. I separate from Harry with a quick ‘good luck’, and go to find a place to sit and watch. Oh who am I kidding, I will worry as well.

I slowly make my way through the roaring, boisterous crowd. I look for crimson and gold in a mass of bodies. Finally I’m able to spot a familiar pair of flaming red heads, along with my brother who is jumping up and down, while waving his hand to get my attention like a mad man. I push past some third year Ravenclaws as I finally managed to get to the benches where they’re sat. It looks like they’ve even managed to save me a seat.

“Jamie! There you are! I was afraid that you were going to miss the task! We haven’t been able to fine you, Harry, Hermione, or Ron all morning!” Luka shouts at me attempting to be heard over the ruckus. Fred and George crowd close to us so that they can hear as well.

“Harry and I slept in the library! We literally woke up like ten minutes ago!” I say, watching the shocked looks on their faces. I don’t notice that I have another avid listener until I double take at the image of Ariana sitting next to Luka. My mouth goes dry for some reason, and I self consciously run my near frozen fingers through my hair.

I had totally forgotten to dress warmer since I was up all night. I was only wearing my winter school uniform and that wasn’t nearly enough protection. Before I can even mention the cold, and my shivering, there’s a warm cloak being draped over my shoulders. I look down at it in shock noticing how it fits my form fairly well, and look back up to the now pink-cheeked girl.

She’s wearing a thick winter pull over and pants, so she’s not even shivering yet. Noticing that I’ve been staring, Ariana crosses her arms over her chest with a huff of annoyance. “Well I couldn’t just stand there and let you freeze could I? You’d be like a frozen puppy, and I would be blamed for letting you get frost bite.” She defends herself.

I don’t notice the knowing smirks plastered on each of the Weasley twins’ faces, nor the subtly of the money exchanging hands. Luka just looks confused about what’s going on. I smile at the young Dumbledore in thanks, before tuning back in to the craziness around us.

Fred and George start hollering for last minute bets to take place, and Luka starts groaning about who could have possibly been so daft as to put a water based competition in February. I meanwhile slip my arms through the sleeves of the cloak, and wrap it around me securely, all the while attempting not to worry too much about my friends.

“They’ll be all right… they have to be.” I say softly, thinking that I’m not heard. That is until a mittened hand slips into mine, and I glance over at warm chocolate eyes.

“Grandfather wouldn’t let anything happen to them. When I heard about what this task would entail, I swore to him that if it involved you in danger in anyway that I would never speak to him again. He promised.” Ariana tells me just as softly. I bite my lip again, and give her warm hand a squeeze.

Suddenly an amplified throat clearing sounds over the stands, and everyone quiets down into a low whisper. It looks like the task is about to begin. “Well, all our champions are ready for the second task, which will start on my whistle. They have precisely an hour to recover what has been taken from them. On the count of three, then. One . . . two . . . three!” The voice of Ludo Bagman booms over everyone.

The whistle echoes shrilly in the cold, still air; the stands erupt with cheers and applause. I watch with bated breath as Krum, Fleur, and Cedric dive into the water, as Harry sort of stumbles around clawing at his throat. My breath catches in my chest as I watch my friend tumble into the water face first. Its quiet around our little group, as we wait for some sign that Harry is okay.

“Come on Harry.” Luka says, surprising me at his firm support of my friend. Luka has been so against Harry and the trouble that he’s caused that I’m surprised that he’s not silently happy. Before I can worry about anything too much though, Harry surfaces from the water with a backflip.

His feet have become long and webbed, and there seem to be gills on the side of his neck. Well I guess that a goldfish wasn’t too far off from his original prediction. Soon all of the action was deep below the surface of the lake and there was no way that we would be able to see any of the action going on down there. Nervous, anxious, and suspenseful chatter broke out among the students in the crowd. The hour was very quickly coming to pass and none of the champions were making it back to the surface.

What if this really was a task designed to be impossible? What if all three of my best friends are now set to die? The hour mark is up, and everyone is staring expectantly at the judges and the water. That is until Fleur Delacour surfaces from the water, though it is without the person or treasure that she went down for.

The Beauxbatons students let up a mournful cry as the rest of the students cheer. Well that’s at least one champion down three to go. Not long after Fleur the damp golden head of Cedric Diggory surfaces with a sputtering Cho Chang in his arms. Well I guess it wasn’t really all that shocking that Cho was chosen as his treasure.

I don’t bother to listen to Bagman as he goes on exalting Diggory, even though Ariana is cheering for him. All I can think about is that she’s still holding my hand, not his.

Next to come up is Krum and with him the thoroughly soaked form of my best friend in the whole wide world. “Hermione!” I cry, jerking to a stand, and shaking out of Ariana’s hold to go racing out of the stands and over to the shore where the wet champions, judges, and Madam Pomfrey are.

I dodge and swerve around people until I’m at her. She’s bundled up in a thick blanket, drinking a concoction of the matron’s which literally has smoke coming out of her ears. “Mione!” I cry throwing myself at the girl. She barely has time to hold her arms out to catch me. I don’t care that she’s wet, only that she’s safe and back with me.

I’m not allowing Krum to take her away again (yes I know I’m not being fair). “I’m soaking wet Jamie! You’re getting wet, and I’m just fine.” Hermione says patting my back to try and get me to calm down. There’s suddenly a commotion and we both turn to look at the surface of the lake to see Harry finally pop up with Ron, and what looks like a small blond girl.

Hermione and I both let out relived breathes of air. As soon as the trio make it to the surface Madam Pomfrey is fussing over them. I manage to smile at them before Fleur is running up to them shouting for a Gabrielle. I watch as the young girl is swooped up into the arms of the blond beauty. The girl looks to be no more than ten, so I’m curious as to what she’s doing here at Hogwarts for the competition in the first place.

After some time I manage to hug and reassure myself that both Harry and Ron are indeed fine, the four of us finally back together and relatively in one piece. All that’s left is for the winners to be announced.

Ron was very busily and animatedly talking about how he Fleur Delacour actually kissed him (though I remind him countlessly that it wasn’t on the mouth). Suddenly the crowd hushes for the judges have come to a decision.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we have reached our decision. Merchieftainess Murcus has told us exactly what happened at the bottom of the lake, and we have therefore decided to award marks out of fifty for each of the champions, as follows. . . .

“Fleur Delacour, though she demonstrated excellent use of the Bubble-Head Charm, was attacked by grindylows as she approached her goal, and failed to retrieve her hostage. We award her twenty-five points.” Applause from the stands.

“I deserved zero,” says Fleur throatily, shaking her magnificent head.

“Cedric Diggory, who also used the Bubble-Head Charm, was first to return with his hostage, though he returned one minute outside the time limit of an hour.” Enormous cheers from the Hufflepuffs in the crowd; I see Cho give Cedric a glowing look (and also the scowl on Harry’s face). “We therefore award him forty-seven points.”

“Viktor Krum used an incomplete form of Transfiguration, which was nevertheless effective, and was second to return with his hostage. We award him forty points.” Well this is definitely turning out to be interesting I hope that Harry’s stupid nobility helped him out somewhat.

“Harry Potter used gillyweed to great effect,” Bagman continues. “He returned last, and well outside the time limit of an hour. However, the Merchieftainess informs us that Mr. Potter was first to reach the hostages, and that the delay in his return was due to his determination to return all hostages to safety, not merely his own.”

Ron, Hermione, and I give Harry half-exasperated, half-commiserating looks. “Most of the judges,” and here, Bagman gives Karkaroff a very nasty look, “feel that this shows moral fiber and merits full marks. However . . . Mr. Potter’s score is forty-five points.”

Well that is most certainly something to celebrate, and celebrate we did indeed, all the way back to the castle to change into some dry clothes. I have to admit that I was a little late to the party for Harry (now tied in first place with Cedric) for I was busy returning the cloak that Ariana had lent to me.

“I’m sorry for getting lake water on it. I— I just really needed to see my friends.” I tell her bashfully. Ariana chuckles, and takes the wet garment back into her possession.

“No worries, water will dry out. Besides, you were just worried for your friends. They’re lucky to have such a fantastic friend like you Jamie.” She tells me drawing me in for a quick hug. “I am too.” She says softly before releasing me, and hurrying back towards the kitchens so that she can get back to her dormitory.

I stand there frozen for a second before a smile lights up my face. Today turned out to be a wonderful day after all. My best friends didn’t die, and my other friend decided to forgive me. Now if only I could figure out what had made her so upset in the first place?

It is safe to say that all critical thoughts were out of my head as soon as I made it into the festive common room. Did I forget to mention that I love common room parties thrown by the twins?


	24. Padfoot Returns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything you recognize is J.K. Rowling's. Except Jamie, Luka, and Ariana.

Chapter 24- Padfoot Returns

 

One of the best things about the aftermath of the second task is that everybody is very keen to hear details of what happened down in the lake, which means that Ron is getting to share Harry’s limelight for once. I notice that Ron’s version of events changes subtly with every retelling. At first, he gives what seems to be the truth; it tallies with Hermione’s story, anyway — Dumbledore put all the hostages into a bewitched sleep in Professor McGonagall’s office, first assuring them that they would be quite safe, and would awake when they were back above the water. One week later, however, Ron is telling a thrilling tale of kidnap in which he struggled single-handedly against fifty heavily armed merpeople who had to beat him into submission before tying him up.

Not a very likely story I assure you. “But I had my wand hidden up my sleeve,” he assures Padma Patil, who seems to be a lot keener on Ron now that he is getting so much attention and is making a point of talking to him every time they pass in the corridors. “I could’ve taken those mer-idiots any time I wanted.”

“Only in his dreams.” I say conspiratorially to Harry, as we walk a few paces behind the pair. Harry snickers and rolls his eyes at the way that Ron is hamming his role in the whole ordeal up.

“What were you going to do, snore at them?” says Hermione waspishly. People have been teasing her so much about being the thing that Viktor Krum would most miss that she is in a rather tetchy mood. I have had to listen to so much ranting about the idiocy of people that I’m pretty sure that my ears are bleeding.

Ron’s ears go red, and thereafter, he reverts to the bewitched sleep version of events.

As we enter March the weather becomes drier, but cruel winds skin our hands and faces every time we go out onto the grounds. There are delays in the post because the owls keep being blown off course. The brown owl that Harry sent to Sirius with the dates of the Hogsmeade weekend turns up at breakfast on Friday morning with half its feathers sticking up the wrong way; Harry has no sooner torn off Sirius’s reply than it takes flight, clearly afraid it is going to be sent outside again.

Sirius’s letter was almost as short as the previous one.

Be at stile at end of road out of Hogsmeade (past Dervish and Banges) at two o’clock on Saturday afternoon. Bring as much food as you can.

 

“He hasn’t come back to Hogsmeade?” says Ron incredulously.

“Well he was locked up for a long time, not much can be said for his state of mental health I think.” I say rubbing the palms of my hands over the pleats of my skirt. As much as I’ve grown to like the man, the memory of our first meeting still haunts my nightmares, and me so I’m not too keen to be going and meeting him.

“It looks like it, doesn’t it?” says Hermione.

“I can’t believe him,” spits Harry tensely, “if he’s caught . . .”

“Made it so far, though, hasn’t he?” says Ron. “And it’s not like the place is swarming with dementors anymore.” On that final and cheery note, the four of us slip out of the benches, and make our way to our last class of the day, double potions with the Slytherins. Not something that I am looking forward to at all.

Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle are standing in a huddle outside the classroom door with Pansy Parkinson’s gang of Slytherin girls. All of them are looking at something I can’t see and sniggering heartily. Pansy’s pug-like face peers excitedly around Goyle’s broad back as Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I approach.

“There they are, there they are!” she giggles, and the knot of Slytherins breaks apart. Whenever Parkinson is happy about something, you know that it’s not good. I see that Pansy has a magazine in her hands — Witch Weekly. The moving picture on the front shows a curly-haired witch who is smiling toothily and pointing at a large sponge cake with her wand. What a piece of garbage, I would never waste my time on that.

“You might find something to interest you in there, Granger!” Pansy says loudly, and she throws the magazine at Hermione, who catches it, looking startled. At that moment, the dungeon door opens, and Snape beckons us all inside. I raise my eyebrow at the retreating Slytherins’ backs. I have a feeling that our day is about to be worse.

Hermione, Harry, Ron, and I head for a table at the back of the dungeon as usual. Once Snape has turned his back on us to write up the ingredients of today’s potion on the blackboard, Hermione hastily rifles through the magazine under the desk. At last, in the center pages, Hermione finds what we are looking for. Harry, Ron, and I lean in closer. A color photograph of Harry heads a short piece entitled:

Harry Potter’s Secret Heartache

A boy like no other, perhaps — yet a boy suffering all the usual pangs of adolescence, writes Rita Skeeter. Deprived of love since the tragic demise of his parents, fourteen-year-old Harry Potter thought he had found solace in his steady girlfriend at Hogwarts, Muggle-born Hermione Granger. Little did he know that he would shortly be suffering yet another emotional blow in a life already littered with personal loss.

Miss Granger, a plain but ambitious girl, seems to have a taste for famous wizards that Harry alone cannot satisfy. Since the arrival at Hogwarts of Viktor Krum, Bulgarian Seeker and hero of the last World Quidditch Cup, Miss Granger has been toying with both boys’ affections. Krum, who is openly smitten with the devious Miss Granger, has already invited her to visit him in Bulgaria over the summer holidays, and insists that he has “never felt this way about any other girl.” Harry meanwhile has taken up with good friend Jamie Pendragon to ease the pain of heartbreaking betrayal.

However, it might not be Miss Granger’s doubtful natural charms that have captured these unfortunate boys’ interest.

“She’s really ugly,” says Pansy Parkinson, a pretty and vivacious fourth-year student, “but she’d be well “up to making a Love Potion, she’s quite brainy. I think that’s how she’s doing it.”

Love Potions are, of course, banned at Hogwarts, and no doubt Albus Dumbledore will want to investigate these claims. In the meantime, Harry Potter’s well-wishers must hope that, next time, he bestows his heart on a worthier candidate.

 

By the time that I’m finished scanning the article my hands are clenched into fists. How dare she say that about my best friend! Pansy is going to pay for her ugly comment, and I’ll make sure that Rita Skeeter never touches one of my friends again— ever.

“I told you!” Ron hisses at Hermione as she stares down at the article. “I told you not to annoy Rita Skeeter! She’s made you out to be some sort of — of scarlet woman!”

Hermione stops looking astonished and snorts with laughter. “Scarlet woman?” she repeats, shaking with suppressed giggles as she looks around at Ron. I don’t know why she isn’t more upset. Everyone is going to see this article, and most people are stupid enough to read it and believe it. This won’t end well mark my words.

“It’s what my mum calls them,” Ron mutters, his ears going red.

“If that’s the best Rita can do, she’s losing her touch,” says Hermione, still giggling, as she throws Witch Weekly onto the floor. “What a pile of old rubbish.”

She looks over at the Slytherins, who are all watching her and Harry closely across the room to see if they are upset by the article. Hermione gives them a sarcastic smile and a wave, and she, Harry, Ron, and I start unpacking the ingredients we will need for our Wit-Sharpening Potion.

“I’m going to seriously put a damper on that rat Parkinson’s day.” I mutter crossly, gripping my wand tightly, prepared to start some trouble. Hermione grips my hand tightly, and lowers my stealthily placed wand back to my side.

“None of that now Jamie. You seriously need to watch that temper of yours. I’m fine and everything will be okay.” She tells me softly, as I take deep breaths to calm myself down. This isn’t over. Mark my words, Pansy will be wishing that she had never laid eyes of Rita Skeeter by the time that I’m through with her.

“There’s something funny, though,” says Hermione ten minutes later, holding her pestle suspended over a bowl of scarab beetles. “How could Rita Skeeter have known . . . ?”

“Known what?” says Ron quickly. “You haven’t been mixing up Love Potions, have you?”

“Don’t be stupid,” Hermione snaps, starting to pound up her beetles again. “No, it’s just . . . how did she know Viktor asked me to visit him over the summer?”

Hermione blushes scarlet as she says this and determinedly avoids Ron’s eyes. Well this relationship is definitely progressing fast, and she didn’t even see fit to inform me of this.

“What?” says Ron, dropping his pestle with a loud clunk. I send a glare at her.

“I second that what. You didn’t tell me about this!” I hiss.

“He asked me right after he’d pulled me out of the lake,” Hermione mutters. “After he’d got rid of his shark’s head. Madam Pomfrey gave us both blankets and then he sort of pulled me away from the judges so they wouldn’t hear, and he said, if I wasn’t doing anything over the summer, would I like to —”

“And what did you say?” says Ron, who has picked up his pestle and is grinding it on the desk, a good six inches from his bowl, because he is looking at Hermione.

“And he did say he’d never felt the same way about anyone else,” Hermione goes on, going so red now that I can almost feel the heat coming from her, “but how could Rita Skeeter have heard him? She wasn’t there . . . or was she? Maybe she has got an Invisibility Cloak; maybe she sneaked onto the grounds to watch the second task. . . .”

“And what did you say?” Ron repeats, pounding his pestle down so hard that it dents the desk. Well this will be another blow out fight, and this is definitely not the place to have it. I have a good feeling that Gryffindor will suddenly be down about fifty plus points very soon. Snape seems to have radar for these situations.

“Well, I was too busy seeing whether you and Harry were okay to —”

“Fascinating though your social life undoubtedly is, Miss Granger,” says an icy voice right behind us, and all four of us jump, “I must ask you not to discuss it in my class. Ten points from Gryffindor.”

Yep, he seems to have a sixth sense for these things. Snape has glided over to our desk while we are talking. The whole class is now looking around at us; Malfoy takes the opportunity to flash POTTER STINKS across the dungeon at Harry.

“Ah . . . reading magazines under the table as well?” Snape adds, snatching up the copy of Witch Weekly from the floor. Now he’s really stooping low to find a reason to punish us. “A further ten points from Gryffindor . . . oh but of course . . .” Snape’s black eyes glitter as they fall on Rita Skeeter’s article. “Potter has to keep up with his press cuttings. . . .”

Oh this is really not good, mainly because I’m ninety percent sure that I’m going to blow my top off at the professor. The dungeon rings with the Slytherins’ laughter, and an unpleasant smile curls Snape’s thin mouth. To my fury, he begins to read the article aloud.

“‘Harry Potter’s Secret Heartache’ . . . dear, dear, Potter, what’s ailing you now? ‘A boy like no other, perhaps . . .’” I watch my friends’ mortification. Snape is pausing at the end of every sentence to allow the Slytherins a hearty laugh. The article sounds ten times worse when read by Snape. Even Hermione is blushing scarlet now.

“Excuse me ‘professor’ isn’t it your job to actually be teaching this class, instead of indulging yourself in frivolous gossip. Not to mention that anyone at this table was actually reading the horrid article at the time. May I remind you that humiliating and embarrassing your students is frowned upon by Professor Dumbledore? So I kindly suggest professor, that you turn around, and go back to teaching the class, like you are supposedly paid to.” I say deadly serious, staring into his ink black eyes without blinking.

I don’t even know how I managed to stay so calm during that whole speech. Not to mention that this is probably going to get me expelled. Shocked gasps are ringing out throughout the class, while Snape and I are still locked in a heated stare. Slowly Snape bends down to my level so that our faces are inches apart. I truly don’t care to look at his greasy hair up close.

Why couldn’t he figure out the concept of shampoo yet? “Listen to me very carefully Pendragon. I do not care about your opinion. This is my class, and I may teach it anyway that I want. If it bothers you so much, then leave— no I insist that you leave. That will be ten points from Gryffindor for your insubordination. Pack up your bag. And. Get. Out.” He hisses.

Without another word he swoops back to the front of the classroom. I don’t bother looking at anyone as I pack up my stuff with shaking hands. I don’t know what’s getting over me, its like I have no control what so ever over my temper, and its starting to effect my body as well.

As soon as I manage to close my bag to the best of my ability, I’m flying out of the classroom and into the cool hallways. I seriously need to get a hold of myself, but its like the air is getting harder to breathe. I don’t know what’s going on, and it seems like this time something bad is actually going to happen to me.

My heart is beating wildly against my ribcage demanding to be let out of it confinement. Sweat starts dripping down my face at an accelerated rate. I stumble up the stone steps from the corridor, and almost trip on the top on into the entrance hall. My vision becomes spotty, and the world blurs around me. Is this what it feels like to die?

This is all that I have left to expect from my life? My feet trip over themselves again, but before I can fall, a pair of arms catch me around my waist, and hold my tight. “Jamie! Jamie… this is not good, you’re burning up. Come on hospital wing with you.” A slightly garbled voice says. I force my blurry eyes upward to comprehend who my timely savior is.

A flash of blurred blond and a gold insignia against black robes is all that I get. Instinctively though, I know that the young Dumbledore has hold of me, and will make things right, she’s like a mini professor Dumbledore and that’s scary in itself sometimes.

“Ariana… Jamie? What happened? What’s wrong with her?” A panicked voice shouts. At first I think that its Madam Pomfrey but the voice is specifically male and once closer, I can make out the same golden brown locks that adorn my own head. Luka is here now.

“I don’t know, but we have to get her to hospital wing.” Ariana grits out. Luka slips under my other arm to support my weight between the two of them, and we finally make it to the infirmary. As soon as we’re through the doors Ariana is shouting for Madam Pomfrey.

“You’re going to be okay Jamie. You’re supposed to stick around until we’re old and grey together. Don’t you want to yell at people to get off our lawns together?” Luka asks me, reminding me of a conversation we had last year. If I didn’t feel like I was about to keel over, I would have smiled in recollection.

“Put her over there.” Madam Pomfrey orders. I let out a weak groan at having to be moved again. Couldn’t they just let me die in peace without moving me? I guess not. Seconds later I’m lying on one of the hospital beds, with a blurry Madam Pomfrey standing over me waving her wand. After a minute, I hear a sharp intake of breath.

“What is it?” Luka demands.

“What’s wrong?” Ariana worries.

“I’ve got a tonic here somewhere which ought to help…” Madam Pomfrey deflects as she scurries away. I can just make out the worried faces of my friends over head. Ariana is holding onto my hand tightly, and Luka is giving me this pensive look that he gets every time I’m hurt, sick, or in trouble when he’s not.

Suddenly the doors to the hospital wing burst open, and I see a blurry light blue shape swoop into the room. “Mr. Pendragon, Ariana, I must insist that you leave us now and return to your classes.” The soft but strong voice of Dumbledore falls over the room.

“No!” Luka says.

“But Grandfather, Jamie’s hurt!” Ariana argues. I can’t tell the look that the two of them are receiving from Professor Dumbledore, but I can guess that it isn’t pretty.

“Miss Pendragon needs proper care, and that care cannot be administered, with you two present for the procedure. So I’ll say it again. Go to class, and tonight during visiting hours you may come and visit her again. I daresay that she be feeling a right lot better by then.” Dumbledore says.

Slowly but surely my brother and Ariana make their way to the door, before they’re gone with grumbled protests. With the pair of them gone though, that leaves me to the professor’s scrutiny. “Well Jamie, it looks like you’ve gotten yourself worked up quite a bit.” He says finally. What is he talking about?

“I guess that I should have known that it would be Professor Snape who would eventually set you off. The man does seem to singularly have a rather nasty talent at rubbing people the wrong way.” He goes on. Suddenly there’s hurried footsteps on the other side of me.

“I’ve found the tonic professor.” Madam Pomfrey says, before helping me sit up, and putting the cool glass to my lips. “Drink up now. It will taste like horse piss, but it will make you feel worlds better.”

At the description and taste, I choke, making my already labored breathing worse. The healing witch wouldn’t take no for an answer though, forcing me to swallow every last drop of the foul tasting concoction. I sputter into a hacking cough, but my body is already starting to relax alongside my breathing.

Thankfully my vision is returning to me, and the professor comes into view. He is sitting at my bedside, and staring at me with those icy blue eyes of his. I feel like he is trying to look into my very soul. It’s very off putting to tell you the least. Wait a minute, why is Professor Dumbledore even here in the first place?

“P-Professor?” I croak out sounding more like a bullfrog than a young girl. Dumbledore’s eyes twinkle at the question.

“Well hello there Miss Pendragon. We seem to find ourselves meeting here in the hospital wing more times than not. I’m very glad to see that you are beginning to feel better. Now tell me Jamie, do you know what just occurred here?” He asks me. I pause and think back through everything that happened in the last hour or two.

“I dunno… I was in class then I— Snape…” I trail off. Dumbledore says nothing, not even to tell me off for not calling Snape by his proper title.

“You got very upset did you not Jamie?” He asks me. I startle a little wondering how he had come to that conclusion so quickly. I nod my head, for my voice suddenly has seemed to stop working. With a sigh, Dumbledore uncrosses his legs, and leans forward in the seat that he’s taken at my bedside.

“You are a very extraordinarily special girl Jamie. The magic that you contain inside you in unlike any other that has come before you for a very long time. Now that magic is still developing, and is… unruly at times. I think that you’ve been able to tell that you’ve been growing angrier at certain times. This is a manifestation of your magic.”

“Since you are still growing and learning how to harness your magical capabilities, this problem will be learnt how to be dealt with properly, but all in due time. Now the worrisome part about this very special form of magic, is that since you cannot express it, it will wreak havoc on your body until it is let out.” He tells me. I feel my eyes widen, and my jaw drop just a little bit at what he’s telling me, which is not a lot.

“When you do fins yourself becoming increasingly angry Jamie, you will need to remove yourself from the situation immediately. It matters not whether you are in class, dinner, dormitory, or back at home. Then you must focus on calming yourself after, so that you do not get this far off, and are forced to withstand another of those dreadful tonics. If that does not work one of the professors will contact me.” He says, not bothering to explain what would happen after that.

“P-professor, is this magic dangerous? I-I don’t think that there’s anything special about me that could warrant such a thing.” I finally manage to say. At that Professor Dumbledore smiles widely at me.

“No it is not Jamie. And at that last statement, only proves further that you are truly the one to wield such a gift.” He says cryptically, before getting up to leave me to my rest. Well that only managed to make me even more confused, and give me a headache on top of everything else.

* * *

 

We leave the castle at noon the next day to find a weak silver sun shining down upon the grounds. The weather is milder than it has been all year, and by the time we arrive in Hogsmeade, all four of us have taken off our cloaks and thrown them over our shoulders. The food Sirius told us to bring is in Harry’s bag; we sneaked a dozen chicken legs, a loaf of bread, and a flask of pumpkin juice from the lunch table.

We go into Gladrags Wizardwear to buy a present for Dobby, where we have fun selecting the most lurid socks we can find, including a pair patterned with flashing gold and silver stars, and another that screams loudly when the become too smelly. Then, at half past one, we make our way up the High Street, past Dervish and Banges, and out towards the edge of the village.

This is a nice change from yesterday where I spent the rest of the day on bed rest being annoyed by my friends and family. Everyone was happy that I was okay, but I didn’t share the fact that I have a different kind of magic in me that can make me sick. I don’t quite feel like turning into a pariah yet. Besides, Dumbledore said that it wasn’t dangerous so I should be okay.

I make a promise to myself that if it gets out of hand again, I will tell them. Harry and I have never been in this direction before. The winding lane is leading us out into the wild countryside around Hogsmeade. The cottages are fewer here, and their gardens larger; they are walking towards the foot of the mountain in whose shadow Hogsmeade lay. Then we turn a corner and see a stile at the end of the lane. Waiting for us, its front paws on the topmost bar, is a very large, shaggy black dog, which is carrying some newspapers in its mouth and looking very familiar. . . .

“Hello, Sirius,” says Harry when we reach him. I make sure to fall to the back of the group in order to put as much distance between that dog and me.

The black dog sniffs Harry’s bag eagerly, wags its tail once, then turns and begins to trot away from us across the scrubby patch of ground that rises to meet the rocky foot of the mountain. Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I climb over the stile and follow. Part of me is screaming not to follow the man who brandished a knife at me to the middle of nowhere. He’s Harry’s godfather though, and a good man under all the initial crazy to begin with.

Sometimes its hard to reconcile the two pictures though. Sirius leads us to the very foot of the mountain, where the ground is covered with boulders and rocks. It is easy for him, with his four paws, but Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I are soon out of breath.  We follow Sirius higher, up onto the mountain itself. For nearly half an hour we climb a steep, winding, and stony path, following Sirius’s wagging tail, sweating in the sun.

Then, at last, Sirius slips out of sight, and when we reach the place where he has vanished, we see a narrow fissure in the rock. We squeeze into it and find ourselves in a cool, dimly lit cave. Tethered at the end of it, one end of his rope around a large rock, is Buckbeak the hippogriff. Half gray horse, half giant eagle, Buckbeak’s fierce orange eye flashes at the sight of us. All four of them bow low to him, and after regarding us imperiously for a moment, Buckbeak bends his scaly front knees and allows Hermione to rush forward and stroke his feathery neck. I join her after a moment. I’ll take Buckbeak over Sirius Black any day. Harry, however, is looking at the black dog, which has just turned into his godfather.

Sirius is wearing ragged gray robes; the same ones he had been wearing when he left Azkaban. His black hair is longer than it had been when he appeared in the fire, and it is untidy and matted once more. He looks very thin.

“Chicken!” he says hoarsely after removing the old Daily Prophets from his mouth and throwing them down onto the cave floor. Harry pulls open his bag and hands over the bundle of chicken legs and bread.

“Thanks,” says Sirius, opening it, grabbing a drumstick, sitting down on the cave floor, and tearing off a large chunk with his teeth. “I’ve been living off rats mostly. Can’t steal too much food from Hogsmeade; I’d draw attention to myself.” He grins up at Harry, but Harry returns the grin only reluctantly.

“What’re you doing here, Sirius?” He asks.

“Fulfilling my duty as godfather,” says Sirius, gnawing on the chicken bone in a very doglike way. “Don’t worry about it, I’m pretending to be a lovable stray.” I have to contain my snort at that. Even skinny and skeletal looking that dog is more like a giant hound, and people are bound to be afraid.

He is still grinning, but seeing the anxiety in Harry’s face, says more seriously, “I want to be on the spot. Your last letter . . . well, let’s just say things are getting fishier. I’ve been stealing the paper every time someone throws one out, and by the looks of things, I’m not the only one who’s getting worried.”

He nods at the yellowing Daily Prophets on the cave floor, and Ron picks them up and unfolds them. Harry, however, continues to stare at Sirius.

“What if they catch you? What if you’re seen?”

“You four and Dumbledore are the only ones around here who know I’m an Animagus,” says Sirius, shrugging, and continuing to devour the chicken leg.

Ron nudges Harry and I walk over to them to see as well. He passes us the Daily Prophets. There are two: The first bears the headline Mystery Illness of Bartemius Crouch, the second, Ministry Witch Still Missing — Minister of Magic Now Personally Involved.

I scan the story about Crouch. Phrases jump out at me: hasn’t been seen in public since November . . . house appears deserted . . . St. Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries decline comment . . . Ministry refuses to confirm rumors of critical illness. . . .

“They’re making it sound like he’s dying,” says Harry slowly. “But he can’t be that ill if he managed to get up here. . . .”

“My brother’s Crouch’s personal assistant,” Ron informs Sirius. “He says Crouch is suffering from overwork.”

“Mind you, he did look ill, last time I saw him up close,” I say slowly, still reading the story. “The night Harry’s name came out of the goblet. . . .”

“Getting his comeuppance for sacking Winky, isn’t he?” says Hermione, an edge to her voice. She is stroking Buckbeak, who is crunching up Sirius’s chicken bones. “I bet he wishes he hadn’t done it now — bet he feels the difference now she’s not there to look after him.”

“Hermione’s obsessed with house-elves,” Ron mutters to Sirius, casting Hermione a dark look. Sirius, however, looks interested.

“Crouch sacked his house-elf?”

“Yeah, at the Quidditch World Cup,” says Harry, and he launches into the story of the Dark Mark’s appearance, and Winky being found with Harry’s wand clutched in her hand, and Mr. Crouch’s fury. When Harry finishes, Sirius is on his feet again and starts pacing up and down the cave. I make sure to leave plenty room in between us.

“Let me get this straight,” he says after a while, brandishing a fresh chicken leg. “You first saw the elf in the Top Box. She was saving Crouch a seat, right?”

“Right,” says Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I together.

“But Crouch didn’t turn up for the match?”

“No,” says Harry. “I think he said he’d been too busy.” Sirius paces all around the cave in silence. Then he says, “Harry, did you check your pockets for your wand after you’d left the Top Box?”

“Erm . . .” Harry thinks hard. “No,” he says finally. “I didn’t need to use it before we got in the forest. And then I put my hand in my pocket, and all that was in there were my Omnioculars.” He stares at Sirius. “Are you saying whoever conjured the Mark stole my wand in the Top Box?”

“It’s possible,” says Sirius.

“Winky didn’t steal that wand!” Hermione insists.

“The elf wasn’t the only one in that box,” says Sirius, his brow furrowed as he continues to pace. “Who else was sitting behind you?”

“Loads of people,” I say. “Some Bulgarian ministers . . . Cornelius Fudge . . . the Malfoys . . .”

“The Malfoys!” says Ron suddenly, so loudly that his voice echoes all around the cave, and Buckbeak tosses his head nervously. “I bet it was Lucius Malfoy!” That very well could be, but it would be far too easy for that to be so.

“Anyone else?” says Sirius.

“No one,” says Harry.

“Yes, there was, there was Ludo Bagman,” Hermione reminds us.

“Oh yeah . . .”

“I don’t know anything about Bagman except that he used to be Beater for the Wimbourne Wasps,” says Sirius, still pacing. “What’s he like?”

“He’s okay,” says Harry. “He keeps offering to help me with the Triwizard Tournament.”

“Does he, now?” says Sirius, frowning more deeply. “I wonder why he’d do that?”

“Says he’s taken a liking to me,” explains Harry.

“Hmm,” says Sirius, looking thoughtful.

“We saw him in the forest just before the Dark Mark appeared,” Hermione tells Sirius. “Remember?” she says to Harry, Ron, and I.

“Yeah, but he didn’t stay in the forest, did he?” counters Ron. “The moment we told him about the riot, he went off to the campsite.

“How d’you know?” Hermione shoots back. “How d’you know where he Disapparated to?” That is something very hard to prove indeed.

“Come off it,” says Ron incredulously. “Are you saying you reckon Ludo Bagman conjured the Dark Mark?”

“It’s more likely he did it than Winky,” says Hermione stubbornly.

“Told you,” groans Ron, looking meaningfully at Sirius, “told you she’s obsessed with house —” But Sirius holds up a hand to silence Ron.

“When the Dark Mark had been conjured, and the elf had been discovered holding Harry’s wand, what did Crouch do?”

“Went to look in the bushes,” I recount, “but there wasn’t anyone else there.”

“Of course,” Sirius mutters, pacing up and down, “of course, he’d want to pin it on anyone but his own elf . . . and then he sacked her?”

“Yes,” says Hermione in a heated voice, “he sacked her, just because she hadn’t stayed in her tent and let herself get trampled —”

“Hermione, will you give it a rest with the elf!” yells Ron.

Sirius shakes his head and says, “She’s got the measure of Crouch better than you have, Ron. If you want to know what a man’s like, take a good look at how he treats his inferiors, not his equals.” Okay my respect level for this man just went up another few levels.

He runs a hand over his unshaven face, evidently thinking hard. “All these absences of Barty Crouch’s . . . he goes to the trouble of making sure his house-elf saves him a seat at the Quidditch World Cup, but doesn’t bother to turn up and watch. He works very hard to reinstate the Triwizard Tournament, and then stops coming to that too. . . . It’s not like Crouch. If he’s ever taken a day off work because of illness before this, I’ll eat Buckbeak.”

“He hasn’t if there’s one thing that Pendragons know, even young Pendragons at that, it’s the Ministry and the important people who work there. Crouch would rather die than miss work.” I mutter.

“D’you know Crouch, then?” asks Harry. Sirius’s face darkens. He suddenly looks as menacing as he had the night when I first met him, the night when we still believed Sirius to be a murderer

“Oh I know Crouch all right,” he says quietly. “He was the one who gave the order for me to be sent to Azkaban — without a trial.”

“What?” cry Ron, Hermione, and I together.

“You’re kidding!” roars Harry.

“No, I’m not,” says Sirius, taking another great bite of chicken. “Crouch used to be Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, didn’t you know?”

Harry, Ron, and Hermione shake their heads, while I nod mine.

“He was tipped for the next Minister of Magic,” says Sirius. “He’s a great wizard, Barty Crouch, powerfully magical — and power-hungry. Oh never a Voldemort supporter,” he says, reading the look on Harry’s face. “No, Barty Crouch was always very outspoken against the Dark Side. But then a lot of people who were against the Dark Side . . . well, you wouldn’t understand . . . you’re too young. . . .”

“That’s what my dad said at the World Cup,” says Ron, with a trace of irritation in his voice. “Try us, why don’t you?”

A grin flashes across Sirius’s thin face.

“All right, I’ll try you. . . .” He walks once up the cave, back again, and then says, “Imagine that Voldemort’s powerful now. You don’t know who his supporters are, you don’t know who’s working for him and who isn’t; you know he can control people so that they do terrible things without being able to stop themselves. You’re scared for yourself, and your family, and your friends. Every week, news comes of more deaths, more disappearances, more torturing . . . the Ministry of Magic’s in disarray, they don’t know what to do, they’re trying to keep everything hidden from the Muggles, but meanwhile, Muggles are dying too. Terror everywhere . . . panic . . . confusion . . . that’s how it used to be.”

“Well, times like that bring out the best in some people and the worst in others. Crouch’s principles might’ve been good in the beginning — I wouldn’t know. He rose quickly through the Ministry, and he started ordering very harsh measures against Voldemort’s supporters. The Aurors were given new powers — powers to kill rather than capture, for instance. And I wasn’t the only one who was handed straight to the dementors without trial. Crouch fought violence with violence, and authorized the use of the Unforgivable Curses against suspects. I would say he became as ruthless and cruel as many on the Dark Side. He had his supporters, mind you — plenty of people thought he was going about things the right way, and there were a lot of witches and wizards clamoring for him to take over as Minister of Magic. When Voldemort disappeared, it looked like only a matter of time until Crouch got the top job. But then something rather unfortunate happened. . . .” Sirius smiles grimly. “Crouch’s own son was caught with a group of Death Eaters who’d managed to talk their way out of Azkaban. Apparently they were trying to find Voldemort and return him to power.”

“Crouch’s son was caught?” gasps Hermione.

“Yep,” says Sirius, throwing his chicken bone to Buckbeak, flinging himself back down on the ground besides the loaf of bread, and tearing it in half. “Nasty little shock for old Barty, I’d imagine. Should have spent a bit more time at home with his family, shouldn’t he? Ought to have left the office early once in a while . . . gotten to know his own son.”

He begins to wolf down large pieces of bread. “Was his son a Death Eater?” I ask. Sirius flicks his gaze to me for the first time, and I can see guilt wash over his face.

“No idea,” replies Sirius, still stuffing down bread. “I was in Azkaban myself when he was brought in. This is mostly stuff I’ve found out since I got out. The boy was definitely caught in the company of people I’d bet my life were Death Eaters — but he might have been in the wrong place at the wrong time, just like the house-elf.”

“Did Crouch try and get his son off?” Hermione whispers.

Sirius lets out a laugh that is much more like a bark. “Crouch let his son off? I thought you had the measure of him, Hermione! Anything that threatened to tarnish his reputation had to go; he had dedicated his whole life to becoming Minister of Magic. You saw him dismiss a devoted house-elf because she associated him with the Dark Mark again — doesn’t that tell you what he’s like? Crouch’s fatherly affection stretched just far enough to give his son a trial, and by all accounts, it wasn’t much more than an excuse for Crouch to show how much he hated the boy . . . then he sent him straight to Azkaban.”

“He gave his own son to the dementors?” asks Harry quietly.

“That’s right,” says Sirius, and he doesn’t look remotely amused now. “I saw the dementors bringing him in, watched them through the bars in my cell door. He can’t have been more than nineteen. They took him into a cell near mine. He was screaming for his mother by nightfall. He went quiet after a few days, though . . . they all went quiet in the end . . . except when they shrieked in their sleep. . . .”

I cringe thinking about what that must be like no matter the kind of person you are. It also brings back the unpleasant though of Augustus who is currently still residing in Azkeban. I shiver at the thought, and close my eyes for a second.

For a moment, the deadened look in Sirius’s eyes becomes more pronounced than ever, as though shutters have closed behind them.

“So he’s still in Azkaban?” Harry says.

“No,” replies Sirius dully. “No, he’s not in there anymore. He died about a year after they brought him in.”

“He died?”

“He wasn’t the only one,” spits Sirius bitterly. “Most go mad in there, and plenty stop eating in the end. They lose the will to live. You could always tell when a death was coming, because the dementors could sense it, they got excited. That boy looked pretty sickly when he arrived. Crouch being an important Ministry member, he and his wife were allowed a deathbed visit. That was the last time I saw Barty Crouch, half carrying his wife past my cell. She died herself, apparently, shortly afterward. Grief. Wasted away just like the boy. Crouch never came for his son’s body. The dementors buried him outside the fortress; I watched them do it.”

What a horrible thing to have happen to you. I can see Hermione fighting back tears, and I reach out to take her hand, letting her know that we are here and not there.

Sirius throws aside the bread he has just lifted to his mouth and instead picks up the flask of pumpkin juice and drains it.

“So old Crouch lost it all, just when he thought he had it made,” he continues, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “One moment, a hero, poised to become Minister of Magic . . . next, his son dead, his wife dead, the family name dishonored, and, so I’ve heard since I escaped, a big drop in popularity. Once the boy had died, people started feeling a bit more sympathetic toward the son and started asking how a nice young lad from a good family had gone so badly astray. The conclusion was that his father never cared much for him. So Cornelius Fudge got the top job, and Crouch was shunted sideways into the Department of International Magical Cooperation.”

I remember hearing about that when I was younger, on one of the many nights that I couldn’t sleep and I eavesdropped on some of Kingsley’s conversations.

“Moody says Crouch is obsessed with catching Dark wizards,” Harry tells Sirius.

“Yeah, I’ve heard it’s become a bit of a mania with him,” states Sirius, nodding. “If you ask me, he still thinks he can bring back the old popularity by catching one more Death Eater.”

“And he sneaked up here to search Snape’s office!” says Ron triumphantly, looking at Hermione.

“Yes, and that doesn’t make sense at all,” says Sirius.

“Yeah, it does!” says Ron excitedly, but Sirius shakes his head.

“Listen, if Crouch wants to investigate Snape, why hasn’t he been coming to judge the tournament? It would be an ideal excuse to make regular visits to Hogwarts and keep an eye on him.”

“So you think Snape could be up to something, then?” asks Harry, but Hermione breaks in.

“Look, I don’t care what you say, Dumbledore trusts Snape —”

“Oh give it a rest, Hermione,” says Ron impatiently. “I know Dumbledore’s brilliant and everything, but that doesn’t mean a really clever Dark wizard couldn’t fool him —”

“Dumbledore is the smartest man this world has seen for a long time Ron. I highly doubt that a dark wizard could fool him.” I state impatiently tired of Ron’s ragging on Hermione.

“Why did Snape save Harry’s life in the first year, then? Why didn’t he just let him die?” Hermione shoots at Ron.

“I dunno — maybe he thought Dumbledore would kick him out —”

“What d’you think, Sirius?” Harry says loudly, and Ron and Hermione stop bickering to listen.

“I think they’ve both got a point,” says Sirius, looking thoughtfully at Ron and Hermione. “Ever since I found out Snape was teaching here, I’ve wondered why Dumbledore hired him. Snape’s always been fascinated by the Dark Arts, he was famous for it at school. Slimy, oily, greasy-haired kid, he was,” Sirius adds, and Harry, Ron, and I grin at each other. “Snape knew more curses when he arrived at school than half the kids in seventh year, and he was part of a gang of Slytherins who nearly all turned out to be Death Eaters.”

Sirius holds up his fingers and begins ticking off names. “Rosier and Wilkes — they were both killed by Aurors the year before Voldemort fell. Bellatrix Black, my oh so dear cousin— she’s in Azkeban with her boyfriend. Avery — from what I’ve heard he wormed his way out of trouble by saying he’d been acting under the Imperius Curse — he’s still at large. But as far as I know, Snape was never even accused of being a Death Eater — not that that means much. Plenty of them were never caught. And Snape’s certainly clever and cunning enough to keep himself out of trouble.”

“Snape knows Karkaroff pretty well, but he wants to keep that quiet,” says Ron.

“Yeah, you should’ve seen Snape’s face when Karkaroff turned up in Potions yesterday!” says Harry quickly. “Karkaroff wanted to talk to Snape, he says Snape’s been avoiding him. Karkaroff looked really worried. He showed Snape something on his arm, but I couldn’t see what it was.” Wait, why didn’t they tell me about all this. Okay maybe it was because they were worried about me in the hospital wing but still!

“He showed Snape something on his arm?” says Sirius, looking frankly bewildered. He runs his fingers distractedly through his filthy hair, then shrugs again. “Well, I’ve no idea what that’s about . . . but if Karkaroff’s genuinely worried, and he’s going to Snape for answers . . .”

Sirius stares at the cave wall, then makes a grimace of frustration. “There’s still the fact that Dumbledore trusts Snape, and I know Dumbledore trusts where a lot of other people wouldn’t, but I just can’t see him letting Snape teach at Hogwarts if he’d ever worked for Voldemort.”

“Why are Moody and Crouch so keen to get into Snape’s office then?” asks Ron stubbornly.

“Well,” says Sirius slowly, “I wouldn’t put it past Mad-Eye to have searched every single teacher’s office when he got to Hogwarts. He takes his Defense Against the Dark Arts seriously, Moody. I’m not sure he trusts anyone at all, and after the things he’s seen, it’s not surprising. I’ll say this for Moody, though, he never killed if he could help it. Always brought people in alive where possible. He was tough, but he never descended to the level of the Death Eaters. Crouch, though . . . he’s a different matter . . . is he really ill? If he is, why did he make the effort to drag himself up to Snape’s office? And if he’s not . . . what’s he up to? What was he doing at the World Cup that was so important he didn’t turn up in the Top Box? What’s he been doing while he should have been judging the tournament?”

Sirius lapses into silence, still staring at the cave wall. Buckbeak is ferreting around on the rocky floor, looking for bones he might have overlooked. Finally, Sirius looks up at Ron.

“You say your brother’s Crouch’s personal assistant? Any chance you could ask him if he’s seen Crouch lately?”

“I can try,” says Ron doubtfully. “Better not make it sound like I reckon Crouch is up to anything dodgy, though. Percy loves Crouch.”

“And you might try and find out whether they’ve got any leads on Bertha Jorkins while you’re at it,” says Sirius, gesturing to the second copy of the Daily Prophet.

“Bagman told me they hadn’t,” says Harry.

“Yes, he’s quoted in the article in there,” says Sirius, nodding at the paper. “Blustering on about how bad Bertha’s memory is. Well, maybe she’s changed since I knew her, but the Bertha I knew wasn’t forgetful at all — quite the reverse. She was a bit dim, but she had an excellent memory for gossip. It used to get her into a lot of trouble; she never knew when to keep her mouth shut. I can see her being a bit of a liability at the Ministry of Magic . . . maybe that’s why Bagman didn’t bother to look for her for so long. . . .” Sirius heaves an enormous sigh and rubs his shadowed eyes.

“What’s the time?”

“It’s half past three,” says Hermione. Wow we’ve been here for quite some time. It seems like we’re finally getting some answers, but with those answers just come more questions.

“You’d better get back to school,” Sirius says, getting to his feet. “Now listen . . .” He looks particularly hard at Harry. “I don’t want you lot sneaking out of school to see me, all right? Just send notes to me here. I still want to hear about anything odd. But you’re not to go leaving Hogwarts without permission; it would be an ideal opportunity for someone to attack you.”

“No one’s tried to attack me so far, except a dragon and a couple of grindylows,” Harry says, but Sirius scowls at him.

“I don’t care . . . I’ll breathe freely again when this tournament’s over, and that’s not until June. And don’t forget, if you’re talking about me among yourselves, call me Snuffles, okay?”

He hands Harry the empty napkin and flask and goes to pat Buckbeak good-bye. “I’ll walk to the edge of the village with you,” says Sirius, “see if I can scrounge another paper.”

He transforms into the great black dog before we leave the cave, and we walk back down the mountainside with him, across the boulder-strewn ground, and back to the stile. Here he allows each of us to pat him on the head (I refrain), before turning and setting off at a run around the outskirts of the village. Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I make our way back into Hogsmeade and up towards Hogwarts.

“Wonder if Percy knows all that stuff about Crouch?” Ron wonders as we walk up the drive to the castle. “But maybe he doesn’t care . . . it’d probably just make him admire Crouch even more. Yeah, Percy loves rules. He’d just say Crouch was refusing to break them for his own son.”

“Percy would never throw any of his family to the dementors,” says Hermione severely.

“I don’t know,” says Ron. “If he thought we were standing in the way of his career . . . Percy’s really ambitious, you know. . . .”

“Sometimes you can never really know with family.” I say solemnly thinking about Augustus and how he killed most of mine.

We walk up the stone steps into the entrance hall, where the delicious smells of dinner wafts towards us from the Great Hall. With a heavy sigh we start for the table, and all I can think about is what sort of magic is growing inside me that can have physical symptoms on the outside. This year is just getting stranger every day.


	25. The Madness of Mr. Crouch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything you recognize is J.K. Rowling's. Except Jamie, Luka, and Ariana.

Chapter 25- The Madness of Mr. Crouch

 

Harry, Ron, and Hermione, and I go up to the Owlery after breakfast on Sunday to send a letter to Percy, asking, as Sirius has suggested, whether he has seen Mr. Crouch lately. We use Hedwig, because it has been so long since she’s had a job. Though she looks pretty upset about having to leave Dionysus. When we watch her fly out of sight through the Owlery window, we proceed down to the kitchen to give Dobby his new socks.

The house-elves give us a very cheery welcome, bowing and curtsying and bustling around making tea again. Dobby is ecstatic about his present.

“Harry Potter is too good to Dobby!” he squeaks, wiping large tears out of his enormous eyes.

“You saved my life with that gillyweed, Dobby, you really did,” says Harry.

“No chance of more of those eclairs, is there?” asks Ron, who is looking around at the beaming and bowing house-elves.

“You’ve just had breakfast!” says Hermione irritably, but a great silver platter of eclairs is already zooming towards us, supported by four elves. I can’t help but take a few for myself as well since these happen to be a weakness of mine.

“We should get some stuff to send up to Snuffles,” Harry mutters from beside me.

“Good idea,” says Ron. “Give Pig something to do. You couldn’t give us a bit of extra food, could you?” he asks the surrounding elves, and they bow delightedly and hurry off to get some more.

“Dobby, where’s Winky?” asks Hermione, who is looking around. I swear my best friend only has a one-track mind sometimes.

“Winky is over there by the fire, miss,” says Dobby quietly, his ears drooping slightly.

“Oh dear,” says Hermione as she spots Winky.

I look over at the fireplace too. Winky is sitting on the same stool as last time, but she has allowed herself to become so filthy that she is not immediately distinguishable from the smoke-blackened brick behind her. Her clothes are ragged and unwashed. She is clutching a bottle of butterbeer and swaying slightly on her stool, staring into the fire. As we watch her, she gives an enormous hiccup.

“Winky is getting through six bottles a day now,” Dobby whispers to Harry and me.

“Well, it’s not strong, that stuff,” Harry says. I scoff trying to think about all the differences that are between human anatomy and elf anatomy that I had read about one time when I was bored at the Dumbledore estate. She is three sheets to the wind by my guess.

Dobby shakes his head. “’Tis strong for a house-elf, sir,” he informs Harry. Winky hiccups again. The elves who have brought the eclairs give her disapproving looks as they return to work.

“Winky is pining, Harry Potter,” Dobby whispers sadly. “Winky wants to go home. Winky still thinks Mr. Crouch is her master, sir, and nothing Dobby says will persuade her that Professor Dumbledore is her master now.”

“Hey, Winky,” says Harry, struck by a sudden inspiration, walking over to her, and bending down, “you don’t know what Mr. Crouch might be up to, do you? Because he’s stopped turning up to judge the Triwizard Tournament.”

I can’t help the grin that forms on my face. Well it looks like Boy Wonder has some tricks up his sleeve after all.

Winky’s eyes flicker. Her enormous pupils focus on Harry. She sways slightly again and then says, “M — Master is stopped — hic — coming?”

“Yeah,” explains Harry, “we haven’t seen him since the first task. The Daily Prophet’s saying he’s ill.” Winky sways some more, staring blurrily at Harry.

“Master — hic — ill?” Her bottom lip begins to tremble.

“But we’re not sure if that’s true,” reassures Hermione quickly.

“Master is needing his — hic — Winky!” whimpers the elf. “Master cannot — hic — manage — hic — all by himself. . . .”

“Other people manage to do their own housework, you know, Winky,” Hermione says severely. I let out a soft sigh before grabbing another elcair and efficiently stealing it from Ron, who pouts at me before reaching for another.

“Winky — hic — is not only — hic — doing housework for Mr. Crouch!” Winky squeaks indignantly, swaying worse than ever and slopping butterbeer down her already heavily stained blouse. “Master is — hic — trusting Winky with — hic — the most important — hic — the most secret —”

“What?” prods Harry. But Winky shakes her head very hard, spilling more butterbeer down herself.

“Winky keeps — hic — her master’s secrets,” she says mutinously, swaying very heavily now, frowning up at Harry with her eyes crossed. “You is — hic — nosing, you is.”

“Winky must not talk like that to Harry Potter!” says Dobby angrily. “Harry Potter is brave and noble and Harry Potter is not nosy!”

I glance between the two house elves warily. This wouldn’t be the first time that I’ve seen two of them fight, but I have no idea what it would be like when one of them is so very obviously drunk.

“He is nosing — hic — into my master’s — hic — private and secret — hic — Winky is a good house-elf — hic — Winky keeps her silence — hic — people trying to — hic — pry and poke — hic —”

Winky’s eyelids droop and suddenly, without warning, she slides off her stool into the hearth, snoring loudly. The empty bottle of butterbeer rolls away across the stone-flagged floor. Half a dozen house-elves come hurrying forward, looking disgusted. One of them picks up the bottle; the others cover Winky with a large checked tablecloth and tuck the ends in neatly, hiding her from view.

“We is sorry you had to see that, sirs and miss!” squeaks a nearby elf, shaking his head and looking very ashamed. “We is hoping you will not judge us all by Winky, sirs and misses!”

“She’s unhappy!” cries Hermione, exasperated. “Why don’t you try and cheer her up instead of covering her up?”

“Begging your pardon, miss,” says the house-elf, bowing deeply again, “but house-elves has no right to be unhappy when there is work to be done and masters to be served.”

“Oh for heaven’s sake!” Hermione yells. “Listen to me, all of you! You’ve got just as much right as wizards to be unhappy! You’ve got the right to wages and holidays and proper clothes, you don’t have to do everything you’re told — look at Dobby!”

“Miss will please keep Dobby out of this,” Dobby mumbles, looking scared. The cheery smiles have vanished from the faces of the house-elves around the kitchen. They are suddenly looking at Hermione as though she is mad and dangerous.

“Mione, not every species culture is like ours. You have to learn that and respect it. Not everyone is like Dobby.” I tell her urgently giving a the elves a placating smile. They have all known me for a few years now so I don’t think that they’ll be too mad at me.

“I can’t believe that you condone slavery Jamie!” Hermione snaps harshly. I freeze and send a harsh glare my best friends’ way.

“You know what Hermione you’d better watch what you say to your friends, or you’ll be waking up one day wondering what happened when no one wants to be around you anymore.” I snap back. With that I turn sharply on my heel and storm out of the kitchen.

I’m so distracted as I march away that once I’m back in the hall I don’t even notice the shock of blond hair or the surprised utterance of my name from the owner of said hair. I manage to make it as far as the Entrance Hall before my arm is caught in a surprisingly strong grip. I’m spun around to face the worried face of Ariana.

“Jamie. Take a breath and tell me what happened.” She commands, and for some reason I inhale a large gulp of air not realizing that I hadn’t been breathing for a moment. I close my eyes just focusing on breathing for a little bit.

“Mione just started goin’ off on the elves. I defended them and she implied that I supported slavery. I-I don’t think that’s what I meant right?” I ask her slightly unsure of myself now. Ariana let out a relieved breath, and a chuckle.

“Merlin Jamie, you had me worried that someone had died.” She exclaims. I give the girl an unimpressed look, and cross my arms over my chest.

“This is serious Ariana! My friend thinks that I condone that sort of stuff! I have to live with her Ari, what am I going to do when we’re back in our dorm alone together?” I whine. She shakes her head at me while grabbing my hand to pull me along outside.

“I know Jame. I’m sure that it was something just said in the heat of the moment. Besides, she’s a muggle born and nothing against them but they honestly don’t understand the wizarding world like the rest of us.” Ariana tries to reassure me.

“But Mione’s the smartest witch in our year!” I counter. Ariana chuckles, and laces her arm through mine, as we walk along the paths.

“That doesn’t mean that she doesn’t have stuff to still learn Jamie. Besides she’s your best friend. I think that you both just need some time to cool off. I think that come morning you two will be going back to being thick as thieves. Now come on. Lets talk about other things…”

That’s how I ended up spending the rest of the afternoon with Ariana and later with some of her friends. The momentary stillness of the moment is so different from the whirlwind of activity that fourth year has been so far at Hogwarts.

* * *

 

By breakfast the next day Ron’s and Hermione’s bad moods have burnt out (apparently they got in a fight after I left), and to Harry’s and my relief, Ron’s dark predictions that the house-elves would send substandard food up to the Gryffindor table because Hermione had insulted them is proved false; the bacon, eggs, and kippers are quite as good as usual.

Even Ariana’s prediction turned out to be right for later on that night my best friend had apologized for her rash words, and I had given my own apology as well. It was a good thing too as I wasn’t quite sure how’d I survive in the dorm with Lavender and Parvati alone.

When the post owls arrive, Hermione looks up eagerly; she seems to be expecting something.

“Percy won’t’ve had time to answer yet,” says Ron. “We only sent Hedwig yesterday.”

“No, it’s not that,” says Hermione. “I’ve taken out a subscription to the Daily Prophet. I’m getting sick of finding everything out from the Slytherins.”

“Good thinking!” I say, also looking up at the owls. “Hey, Hermione, I think you’re in luck —”

A gray owl is soaring down towards Hermione. “It hasn’t got a newspaper, though,” she says, looking disappointed. “It’s —”

But to her bewilderment, the gray owl lands in front of her plate, closely followed by four barn owls, a brown owl, and a tawny. What in Merlin’s saggy pants is going on here?

“How many subscriptions did you take out?” asks Harry, seizing Hermione’s goblet before it is knocked over by the cluster of owls, all of whom are jostling close to her, trying to deliver their own letter first.

“What on earth — ?” Hermione says, taking the letter from the gray owl, opening it, and starting to read. “Oh really!” she sputters, going rather red.

“What’s up?” asks Ron.

“It’s — oh how ridiculous —” She thrusts the letter at me, and I see that it is not handwritten, but composed from pasted letters that seem to have been cut out of the Daily Prophet.

You are a WickEd giRL. HarRy PotTER desErves BeTteR. GO back wherE you cAMe from mUGgle.

 

“They’re all like it!” says Hermione desperately, opening one letter after another. “‘Harry Potter can do much better than the likes of you. . . . ’ ‘You deserve to be boiled in frog spawn. . . . ’ Ouch!”

She has opened the last envelope, and yellowish-green liquid smelling strongly of petrol gushes over her hands, which begins to erupt in large yellow boils.

“Undiluted bubotuber pus!” says Ron, picking up the envelope gingerly and sniffing it. My hands clench in anger but I take a few breaths of air trying to calm myself down. Professor Dumbledore did say after all that unjust actions were going to set me off.

“Ow!” says Hermione, tears starting in her eyes as she tries to rub the pus off her hands with a napkin, but her fingers are now so thickly covered in painful sores that it looks as though she is wearing a pair of thick, knobbly gloves.

“You’d better get up to the hospital wing,” says Harry as the owls around Hermione take flight. “We’ll tell Professor Sprout where you’ve gone. . . .”

“I warned her!” says Ron as Hermione hurries out of the Great Hall, cradling her hands. “I warned her not to annoy Rita Skeeter! Look at this one . . .” He reads out one of the letters Hermione had left behind: “‘I read in Witch Weekly about how you are playing Harry Potter false and that boy has had enough hardship and I will be sending you a curse by next post as soon as I can find a big enough envelope.’ Blimey, she’d better watch out for herself.”

I shake my head after finally feeling that I am able to control myself. “She doesn’t deserve that. I swear the next time I see Skeeter I’m going to zap her so hard, she’ll be throwing up slugs for the rest of her life.” I growl out standing with the boys so that we can get to Herbology.

That is until we’re stopped by a gang of Slytherins in front of us. “Looks like Granger was rather upset this morning Potter. You break up with her? Though I would have thought that Miss Skeeter’s new article would have been something of more interest to you.” Malfoy sneers brandishing a copy of the Daily Prophet in his hands.

“I think you’ll be especially interested in the article Weasley, Pendragon.” He says. I snatch the newspaper out of his hands, and flip to the article that he was mentioning.

 

Heartfelt Gesture or Gold Digging Choice?

 

It has recently come to the attention of yours truly that the last two members of the infamous Pendragon family, young Luka and Jamie, are no longer residing with their guardian Kingsley Shacklebolt. Mr. Shacklebolt gave up custody of the pair for mysterious reasons, and this makes readers wonder if it has anything to do with the various escapades committed by Jamie Pendragon and her friends.

On a more interesting note, the guardianship of the Pendragons has been taken up by Department of Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Worker Arthur Weasley’s family. It is a well known fact that the Weasley family is known for their abnormally large family, and shockingly red hair. Young Miss Pendragon is friends with Ronald Weasley the youngest son of the Weasleys.

Having nine children to support in one family is nearly a preposterous idea, so this begs the question is the guardianship over the young Pendragons a ploy to get at the vast fortune that is held in the name of the kids?

Multiple sources close to the children and the family report that this is a very probable possibility. My readers and I hope that a formal investigation is put into place to look up these allegations. More on this developing story will be brought to you soon.

 

By the time I’m done reading the article my hands are shaking in rage. I don’t even know what’s happening until the newspaper in my hands has been set aflame in fire. Not normal fire either but a bright luminescent blue fire. The flames lick my hands but it doesn’t hurt me at all.

“Why that annoying little bi…” Ron starts but is interrupted by the sharp and worried voice of Professor McGonagall.

“Mr. Weasley! That is quite enough from you.” She snaps. The professor’s eyes are locked on me though. I can’t help but stare fascinated by the wisps of blue flame dancing around on the palms of my hands. “Jamie!” She says trying to snap me out of my trance.

My lungs start wheezing trying to keep oxygen in them. “What’s wrong with her? Jamie! Jamie!” I can vaguely hear Luka shouting from somewhere near by, and the noise around me seems to triple. All I can focus on is the words that are seared permanently into my mind.

They seriously think that the Weasleys would only take us in for the money that we could provide them? Is that what happened? No that can’t be! “Let me through! I need to be there!”

“Ariana you need to stay back! Jamie isn’t safe to be by right now.”

“I’ve known the Pendragon twins my whole life. I know them better then you could ever hope to!”

Suddenly there are two warm hands on both of my clammy cheeks, and my fuzzy vision starts to focus on the girl in front of me. It takes me a few seconds before I realize that she’s whispering to me.

“That’s it. You’re doing great. It’s not true Jame. That harpy doesn’t know what she talking about. I bet she barely managed to graduate from Hogwarts as well. Come on Jamie everything is going to be fine.”

The voice is so familiar. I blink a few times and Ariana comes into focus. Her face is creased with worry, and I inhale my first breath of air in a while. Its painful, and I manage to cough more than breathe but it’s a start. “That’s it. I knew that you were still in there somewhere.”

The relieved smile that comes across her face is enough to stave off the initial bout of panic that I feel coming back. “She…said…” I wheeze attempting to relay my anger to her.

“Sh… none of that now. We need to get you up to the hospital wing so that Madam Pomfrey can take a look at your hands.” Ariana tells me cupping my cheek for another second before dropping her hand, and turning around to look at Professor McGonagall.

I notice for the first time that we’re pretty much alone in the hall. I guess that the professor had managed to scare everyone away with threat of detention. So with another shaky breath, I allow to the two of them to lead me out of the Great Hall and up to the hospital wing. At this rate I seriously should just have a bed there.

* * *

 

Hate mail continued to arrive for Hermione over the following week, and although she follows Hagrid’s advice and stops opening it, several of her ill-wishers send Howlers, which explode at the Gryffindor table and shriek insults at her for the whole Hall to hear. Even those people who don’t read Witch Weekly know all about the supposed Harry–Krum–Hermione triangle now. Harry is getting sick of telling people that Hermione isn’t his girlfriend.

Things are just as bad if not worse for me now as well. There are whispers all over the castle about how the Pendragon twins are being exploited and being taken advantage of. A few nights ago all of the Weasleys in Hogwarts, Luka, and I got together and talked about our plan of action with the stupid paper and the rumors going around.

Everyone was giving me a great berth of space since my whole explosion with the blue fire. No one has tried to bring up the subject with me directly, thank Merlin. I don’t think that I would be able to control myself honestly, and that scares me.

“It’ll die down, though,” Harry tells Hermione, “if we just ignore it. . . . People got bored with that stuff she wrote about me last time —”

“I want to know how she’s listening into private conversations when she’s supposed to be banned from the grounds!” says Hermione angrily.

“If she’s brazen enough to make up lies that ruin people’s lives, then she’s definitely crafty enough to hear things she’s not supposed to.” I mutter darkly.

“Are you complementing her Jamie?” Hermione practically screeches at me. I turn my mutinous glare at my best friend.

“I’m just pointing out a fact Hermione. The day that I have anything for that vile roach is the day that I’m locked up for good in St. Mungdos.” I growl out. Harry and Ron look between the two of us warily unsure whether or not they want to get in the middle of the fight between the two of us.

Hermione hangs back in our next Defense Against the Dark Arts lesson to ask Professor Moody something. The rest of the class is very eager to leave; Moody has given us such a rigorous test of hex-deflection that many of them are nursing small injuries. Harry has such a bad case of Twitchy Ears, he has to hold his hands clamped over them as he walks away from the class.

Luckily my new found powers seem to have some sort of help in my enhancing my already above average reflexes, so thankfully I don’t have anything embarrassing to hide like them. This week has been bloody taxing on me.

“Well, Rita’s definitely not using an Invisibility Cloak!” Hermione pants five minutes later, catching up with Harry, Ron, and me in the entrance hall and pulling Harry’s hand away from one of his wiggling ears so that he can hear her. “Moody says he didn’t see her anywhere near the judges’ table at the second task, or anywhere near the lake!”

“Hermione, is there any point in telling you to drop this?” says Ron.

“No!” says Hermione stubbornly. “I want to know how she heard me talking to Viktor! And how she found out about Hagrid’s mum!”

“Maybe she had you bugged,” says Harry.

“Bugged?” says Ron blankly, and I give him a confused look as well. “What . . . put fleas on her or something?”

Harry starts explaining about hidden microphones and recording equipment. Ron is fascinated, and I’m enthralled thinking about all the damage that I can do to Malfoy with one of those insect things, but Hermione interrupts us.

“Aren’t you three ever going to read Hogwarts: A History?”

“What’s the point?” says Ron. “You know it by heart, we can just ask you.” I nod my head along with him considering how I had ended up just recycling my old book by giving it to a first year.

“All those substitutes for magic Muggles use — electricity, computers, and radar, and all those things — they all go haywire around Hogwarts, there’s too much magic in the air. No, Rita’s using magic to eavesdrop, she must be. . . . If I could just find out what it is . . . ooh, if it’s illegal, I’ll have her . . .”

“Haven’t we got enough to worry about?” Ron asks her. “Do we have to start a vendetta against Rita Skeeter as well?”

“I’m not asking you to help!” Hermione snaps. “I’ll do it on my own! Jamie you’ll help me won’t you?”

I shift uncomfortably to my other foot. Though there is a blazing fire inside me that’s roaring for Skeeter’s blood, but I really shouldn’t do anything about it, for I’ve already proven that I can’t control these new powers that I possess so that could be drastically bad. I do not want to be responsible for hurting or worse killing another person, even someone as bad as Rita Skeeter.

“Mione, I’d like nothing more than to make Skeeter pay, but I’m not in a position to be going out and seeking vengeance. I set a newspaper on fire in my anger. I— I can’t.” I admit ashamedly.

“Fine then I’ll do this on my own!” She hisses. Hermione marches back up the marble staircase without a backwards glance our way. I’m quite sure she is going to the library.

“What’s the betting she comes back with a box of I Hate Rita Skeeter badges?” says Ron.

“I’ll buy one of those buttons if so. I’m afraid that we really ticked her off this time though.” I say regretfully.

Hermione, however, does not ask Harry and Ron to help her pursue vengeance against Rita Skeeter, for which they are both grateful, because their workload is mounting ever higher in the days before the Easter holidays. I marvel at the fact that Hermione can research magical methods of eavesdropping as well as everything else we have to do.

Harry is busy trying to communicate with Sirius, while Ron is trying to make sense of all the essays that he has to complete without the help of Hermione. He had really started to rely on her, which is a really bad thing. I on the other hand had been spending more time in secluded corners of the castle with Ariana.

We usually found ourselves sat across from each other practicing breathing techniques to keep my unique brand of magic under control and at bay. I’m not sure whether it will work in a situation where I’m actually faced with the anger, but the exercises are very relaxing and very helpful when working on all the homework that’s piling up.

Hedwig doesn’t return from Percy until the end of the Easter holidays. Percy’s letter is enclosed in a package of Easter eggs that Mrs. Weasley has sent. Harry’s, Ron’s, and my eggs were the size of dragon eggs and full of homemade toffee. Hermione’s, however, is smaller than a chicken egg. Her face falls when she sees it.

“Your mum doesn’t read Witch Weekly, by any chance, does she, Ron?” she asks quietly.

“Yeah,” says Ron, whose mouth is full of toffee. “Gets it for the recipes.”

Hermione looks sadly at her tiny egg.

“You can share mine Mione. I really don’t like toffee all that much anyway. Besides Mrs. Weasley will have to see that she’s being really silly soon anyway.” I reassure her, giving her some of my toffee. She gives me a small smile while eating some of the toffee.

“Don’t you want to see what Percy’s written?” Harry asks Hermione hastily.

Percy’s letter is short and irritated.

 

As I am constantly telling the Daily Prophet, Mr. Crouch is taking a well-deserved break. He is sending in regular owls with instructions. No, I haven’t actually seen him, but I think I can be trusted to know my own superior’s handwriting. I have quite enough to do at the moment without trying to quash these ridiculous rumors. Please don’t bother me again unless it’s something important. Happy Easter.

 

The start of the summer term would normally have meant that I was training hard with Harry for the last Quidditch match of the season. This year, however, it is the third and final task in the Triwizard Tournament for which Harry needs to prepare, but he still doesn’t know what he will have to do. Finally, in the last week of May, Professor McGonagall holds him back in Transfiguration.

Hermione, Ron, and I wait for him out in the hallway. “Do you think that he’s finally going to get his assignment for the final task?” Ron asks us excitedly. Since Harry’s tied for first with Cedric Diggory, Ron’s been betting on Harry to win the whole tournament.

“Quite possibly. It would be very irresponsible to not inform them so that they are ill prepared for the last and arguably most dangerous task of the tournament.” Hermione tells us factually, but I can tell that Ron has already zoned her out.

“Good. I’ll be happy for this whole year to be over. This year has been weird for our standards. Sure Harry is still in danger, but its weird not having to look over my shoulder with him.” I murmur. Hermione gives me a scandalized look, but Ron nods his head in agreement to my statement.

“As long as there’s not giant spiders I’m in.” He nods his head resolutely. Harry comes out of the classroom with an odd look on his face.

“What’s wrong?” Hermione asks immediately. I have to roll my eyes at her immediate panicked response. We’re all so used to bad news by now that its kind of sad.

“I’m supposed to go down to the Quidditch pitch tonight at nine to be informed with the other champions about the third task. Wait up for me and I’ll tell you all about it.” He tells us breathlessly. The Quidditch pitch, is a game going to be the last challenge? If so I demand to be a part of Harry’s team.

* * *

 

It was around eleven o’clock when Harry finally made it back to the dormitory that night. Ron, Hermione, and I were the only ones left in the common room, and the three of us were dressed in our pajamas. Hermione was wearing a long pink nightgown, Ron in his Chudley Cannon Sleepers, and me with my dragon pajamas. Harry was definitely out of place from the sleepy atmosphere, with his school clothes still on, and his cheeks tinged pink from being outside for so long.

“So come on mate, tell us! Don’t leave us hanging!” Ron urges excitedly, attempting to keep his voice down as so not to attract the attention of anyone else who might still be awake in the dorms.

Harry plops down in the armchair across from us, in front of the fire. “You will never believe what I’ve been through these past few hours.” Harry tells us, his expressions bordering on manic enthusiasm.

“What happened? Harry you look like you just solved a mystery!” I say, beginning to get excited myself. Obviously more went on than just the traditional revealing of the third task.

“Well, the third task is a maze. They turned the Quidditch pitch into a maze. I know Jamie I was upset too. There will be booby-traps in the maze, and the first person to get to the Tri-Wizard Cup in the middle, wins the tournament. That’s not what’s interesting though. Krum wanted to talk to me afterwards, so we went off, and had the beginnings of a discussion about you Hermione.”

“Me?” Hermione squeaks, turning red.

“Yep, he wanted to talk about you. We didn’t really get the chance to though, for we came across Mr. Crouch!” Harry exclaims. The three of us stare at him in dumbstruck silence.

“Mr. Crouch is on Hogwarts grounds and nobody knows about it?” I cry.

“Well for one thing he’s crazy. He kept spouting off about the missing ministry worker, his son, Voldemort, and well… me. I left Krum and Crouch to go get Professor Dumbledore for help. When I got back with him and Snape, Krum was knocked out, and Crouch was gone.” Harry says.

Well this is definitely not something that I was expecting to find out tonight. I wonder what’s going to happen next now. Things are beginning to heat up now that the fourth year of Hogwarts is beginning to draw to a close.


	26. Search for Answers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything you recognize is J.K. Rowling's. Except Jamie, Luka, and Ariana.

Chapter 26- Search for Answers

 

“It comes down to this,” says Hermione, rubbing her forehead. “Either Mr. Crouch attacked Viktor, or somebody else attacked both of them when Viktor wasn’t looking.”

“It must’ve been Crouch,” says Ron at once. “That’s why he was gone when Harry and Dumbledore got there. He’d done a runner.”

“I don’t think so,” says Harry, shaking his head. “He seemed really weak — I don’t reckon he was up to Disapparating or anything.”

“You can’t Disapparate on the Hogwarts grounds, haven’t I told you enough times?” says Hermione.

“Okay . . . how’s this for a theory,” I say excitedly. “Krum attacked Crouch — no, wait for it — and then Stunned himself!”

“And Mr. Crouch evaporated, did he?” says Hermione coldly. Ron’s smile drops, and I shrug my shoulders. It had only been a theory after all.

“Oh yeah . . .” Ron sighs unhappily.

It is daybreak. Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I crept out of our dormitories very early and hurry up to the Owlery together to send a note to Sirius. Now we are standing looking out at the misty grounds. All four of us are puffy-eyed and pale because we have been talking late into the night about Mr. Crouch.

“Just go through it again, Harry,” says Hermione. “What did Mr. Crouch actually say?”

“I’ve told you, he wasn’t making much sense,” says Harry. “He said he wanted to warn Dumbledore about something. He definitely mentioned Bertha Jorkins, and he seemed to think she was dead. He kept saying stuff was his fault. . . . He mentioned his son.”

“Well, that was his fault,” says Hermione testily.

“He was out of his mind,” says Harry. “Half the time he seemed to think his wife and son were still alive, and he kept talking to Percy about work and giving him instructions.”

“Percy even a lap dog in insanity. I don’t see his career advancing anytime soon. Do you?” I say slightly amused. Ron snickers, and we share a high five getting one over on the prat who makes our lives miserable when we’re back home. I freeze for a second, realizing that I had just thought of the Burrow, and the small room that I share with Ginny as home.

A small tendril of fear shoots through me, but I find that the idea of having my home be with the huge Weasley clan not as intimidating as I thought that it’d be.

“And . . . remind me what he said about You-Know-Who?” says Ron tentatively.

“I’ve told you,” Harry repeats dully. “He said he’s getting stronger.”

There is a pause. Then Ron says in a falsely confident voice, “But he was out of his mind, like you said, so half of it was probably just raving. . . .”

“He was sanest when he was trying to talk about Voldemort,” says Harry, and Ron winces at the sound of the name. “He was having real trouble stringing two words together, but that was when he seemed to know where he was, and know what he wanted to do. He just kept saying he had to see Dumbledore.”

“Well that’s comforting, I mean just a little. At least he wanted to tell Dumbledore about all of this.” I say softly looking up at the perch that Dionysus and Hedwig are sharing. They’re burrowed together, and looking very snuggly from where I’m standing. Even our owls are beginning to form relationships now. I shake my head fondly at that thought.

“If Snape hadn’t held me up,” Harry says bitterly, “we might’ve got there in time. ‘The headmaster is busy, Potter . . . what’s this rubbish, Potter?’ Why couldn’t he have just got out of the way?”

“Maybe he didn’t want you to get there!” says Ron quickly. “Maybe — hang on — how fast d’you reckon he could’ve gotten down to the forest? D’you reckon he could’ve beaten you and Dumbledore there?”

“Not unless he can turn himself into a bat or something,” says Harry.

“Wouldn’t put it past him,” I mutter, and Harry grins at me grimly.

“We need to see Professor Moody,” says Hermione. “We need to find out whether he found Mr. Crouch.”

“If he had the Marauder’s Map on him, it would’ve been easy,” says Harry.

“Unless Crouch was already outside the grounds,” says Ron, “because it only shows up to the boundaries, doesn’t —”

“Shh!” says Hermione suddenly. Somebody is climbing the steps up to the Owlery. I can hear two voices arguing, coming closer and closer.

“— that’s blackmail, that is, we could get into a lot of trouble for that —”

“— we’ve tried being polite; it’s time to play dirty, like him. He wouldn’t like the Ministry of Magic knowing what he did —”

“I’m telling you, if you put that in writing, it’s blackmail!”

“Yeah, and you won’t be complaining if we get a nice fat payoff, will you?” The Owlery door bangs open. Fred and George come over the threshold, then freeze at the sight of Harry, Ron, Hermione, and me.

“What’re you doing here?” Ron and Fred say at the same time. I can’t help but let a little snicker out at that. Who says that all the Weasley boys have nothing in common except for Fred and George.

“Sending a letter,” say Harry and George in unison. I laugh this time.

“And I thought that twins were the only ones who were to say the same things at the same time.” I say amused.

“What, at this time?” says Hermione and Fred completely ignoring me. Fred grins.

“Fine — we won’t ask you what you’re doing, if you don’t ask us,” he says. He is holding a sealed envelope in his hands. I glance at it, but Fred, whether accidentally or on purpose, shifts his hand so that the name on it is covered.

“Well, don’t let us hold you up,” Fred says, making a mock bow and pointing at the door.

Ron doesn’t move. “Who’re you blackmailing?” he asks. The grin vanishes from Fred’s face. I see George half glance at Fred, before smiling at Ron.

“Don’t be stupid, I was only joking,” he says easily.

“Didn’t sound like that,” says Ron.

Fred and George look at each other. Then Fred says abruptly, “I’ve told you before, Ron, keep your nose out if you like it the shape it is. Can’t see why you would, but —”

“It’s my business if you’re blackmailing someone,” says Ron. “George’s right, you could end up in serious trouble for that.”

“Told you, I was joking,” says George. He walks over to Fred, pulls the letter out of his hands, and begins attaching it to the leg of the nearest barn owl. “You’re starting to sound a bit like our dear older brother, you are, Ron. Carry on like this and you’ll be made a prefect.”

“No, I won’t!” says Ron hotly.

“Can you tell me at least? I unlike some people know how to keep my trap shut.” I say pointedly gesturing towards Ron, ignoring the baleful glare that I get in return for that.

“Sorry Jame, can’t do this time, the less residents of Chateau Weasley that know about this the better. Plausible deniability for mum and all of that.” George tells me, and Fred gives me a sympathetic look.

“Fine.” I pout not happy about being left out of the fun this time, even if its as illegal as blackmailing. George carries the barn owl over to the window and it takes off. George turns around and grins at Ron.

“Well, stop telling people what to do then. See you later.” He and Fred leave the Owlery. Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I stare at each other.

“You don’t think they know something about all this, do you?” Hermione whispers. “About Crouch and everything?”

“No,” says Harry. “If it was something that serious, they’d tell someone. They’d tell Dumbledore.”

Ron, however, is looking uncomfortable, and I feel the same, I’m not sure if I’m allowed to tell anyone else about the plan.

“What’s the matter?” Hermione asks us.

“Well . . .” says Ron slowly, “I dunno if they would. They’re . . . they’re obsessed with making money lately, I noticed it when I was hanging around with them — when — you know —”

“We weren’t talking.” Harry finishes the sentence for him. “Yeah, but blackmail . . .”

“It’s this joke shop idea they’ve got,” Ron says. “I thought they were only saying it to annoy Mum, but they really mean it, they want to start one. They’ve only got a year left at Hogwarts, they keep going on about how it’s time to think about their future, and Dad can’t help them, and they need gold to get started.”

“Yeah I’ve known about it from this summer. I helped them with some of the plans. They’re actually rather brilliant.” I admit. Hermione is looking uncomfortable now.

“Yes, but . . . they wouldn’t do anything against the law to get gold.”

“Wouldn’t they?” says Ron, looking skeptical. “I dunno . . . they don’t exactly mind breaking rules, do they?”

“Yes, but this is the law,” says Hermione, looking scared. “This isn’t some silly school rule. . . . They’ll get a lot more than detention for blackmail! Ron . . . maybe you’d better tell Percy. . . .”

“Are you mad?” I cry. “Tell Percy? He’d probably do a Crouch and turn them in.” Ron and I stare at the window through which Fred and George’s owl left, then say, “Come on, let’s get some breakfast.”

“D’you think it’s too early to go and see Professor Moody?” Hermione asks as we go down the spiral staircase.

“Yes,” says Harry. “He’d probably blast us through the door if we wake him at the crack of dawn; he’ll think we’re trying to attack him while he’s asleep. Let’s give it till break.”

History of Magic has rarely gone so slowly. I keep checking Ron’s watch, having left my own, but Ron’s is moving so slowly I swear it has stopped working. All four of us are so tired we could happily have put our heads down on the desks and sleep; even Hermione isn’t taking her usual notes, but is sitting with her head on her hand, gazing at Professor Binns with her eyes out of focus.

This was going to be the death of me, boredom by History of Magic. It would look absolutely ridiculous on my gravestone. When the bell finally rings, we hurry out into the corridors towards the Dark Arts classroom and find Professor Moody leaving it. He looks as tired as we feel. The eyelid of his normal eye is drooping, giving his face an even more lopsided appearance than usual.

“Professor Moody?” Harry calls as we make our way towards him through the crowd.

“Hello, Potter,” growls Moody. His magical eye follows a couple of passing first years, who speed up, looking nervous; it rolls into the back of Moody’s head and watches them around the corner before he speaks again. “Come in here.”

He stands back to let us into his empty classroom, limping in after us, and closing the door.

“Did you find him?” Harry asks without preamble. “Mr. Crouch?”

“No,” growls Moody. He moves over to his desk, sits down, stretches out his wooden leg with a slight groan, and pulls out his hip flask.

“Did you use the map?” Harry asks.

“Of course,” says Moody, taking a swig from his flask. “Took a leaf out of your book, Potter. Summoned it from my office into the forest. He wasn’t anywhere on there.” Where there goes our best idea out the window.

“So he did Disapparate?” asks Ron.

“You can’t Disapparate on the grounds, Ron!” cries Hermione. “There are other ways he could have disappeared, aren’t there, Professor?”

Moody’s magical eye quivers as it rests on Hermione. “You’re another one who might think about a career as an Auror,” he tells her. “Mind works the right way, Granger.” Hermione flushes pink with pleasure.

“Well, he isn’t invisible,” says Harry. “The map shows invisible people. He must’ve left the grounds, then.”

“But under his own steam?” says Hermione eagerly, “or because someone made him?”

“Yeah, someone could’ve — could’ve pulled him onto a broom and flown off with him, couldn’t they?” says Ron quickly, looking hopefully at Moody as if he too wants to be told he has the makings of an Auror. I’m not sure that I would want to be an auror when I grow up. This is a lot of danger as it is in the first place.

“We can’t rule out kidnap,” growls Moody.

“So,” says Ron, “d’you reckon he’s somewhere in Hogsmeade?” I shake my head at that. It’s too obvious. There’s already one wanted person hiding there, the odds of a second is slim.

“Could be anywhere,” says Moody, shaking his head. “Only thing we know for sure is that he’s not here.”

He yawns widely, so that his scars stretch, and his lopsided mouth reveals a number of missing teeth. Then he says, “Now, Dumbledore’s told me you three fancy yourselves as investigators, but there’s nothing you can do for Crouch. The Ministry’ll be looking for him now, Dumbledore’s notified them. Potter, you just keep your mind on the third task.”

“What?” says Harry. “Oh yeah . . .”

“Should be right up your street, this one,” says Moody, looking up at Harry and scratching his scarred and stubbly chin. “From what Dumbledore’s said, you’ve managed to get through stuff like this plenty of times. Broke your way through a series of obstacles guarding the Sorcerer’s Stone in your first year, didn’t you?”

“We helped,” Ron says quickly. “Me, Hermione, and Jamie helped.” Moody grins.

“Well, help him practice for this one, and I’ll be very surprised if he doesn’t win,” says Moody. “In the meantime . . . constant vigilance, Potter. Constant vigilance.” He takes another long draw from his hip flask, and his magical eye swivels onto the window. The topmost sail of the Durmstrang ship is visible through it.

“You three,” counsels Moody, his normal eye on Ron, Hermione, and me, “you stick close to Potter, all right? I’m keeping an eye on things, but all the same . . . you can never have too many eyes out.”

“Oh and Pendragon. You best not be setting anyone aflame from here on out. You won’t be wanting to be going to Azkeban anytime soon. That would be a family reunion you won’t want.” He tells me once the others are out of earshot. I scowl at him, and leave the classroom as fast as I can. I really don’t like that professor, besides the obvious I just can’t pinpoint why.

* * *

 

Sirius sends our owl back the very next morning. It flutters down beside Harry at the same moment that a tawny owl lands in front of Hermione, clutching a copy of the Daily Prophet in its beak. She takes the newspaper, scans the first few pages, said, “Ha! She hasn’t got wind of Crouch!” then joins Ron, Harry, and me in reading what Sirius has to say on the mysterious events of the night before last.

 

Harry — what do you think you are playing at, walking off into the forest with Viktor Krum? I want you to swear, by return owl, that you are not going to go walking with anyone else at night. There is somebody highly dangerous at Hogwarts. It is clear to me that they wanted to stop Crouch from seeing Dumbledore and you were probably feet away from them in the dark. You could have been killed.

Your name didn’t get into the Goblet of Fire by accident. If someone’s trying to attack you, they’re on their last chance. Stay close to Ron, Jamie, and Hermione, do not leave Gryffindor Tower after hours, and arm yourself for the third task. Practice Stunning and Disarming. A few hexes wouldn’t go amiss either. There’s nothing you can do about Crouch. Keep your head down and look after yourself. I’m waiting for your letter giving me your word you won’t stray out-of-bounds again.

Sirius

 

“Who’s he, to lecture me about being out-of-bounds?” says Harry in mild indignation as he folds up Sirius’s letter and puts it inside his robes. “After all the stuff he did at school!”

“He’s your godfather. That’s like a parent, and parents worry.” I explain softly, trying to get Harry to understand.

“He’s worried about you!” says Hermione sharply. “Just like Moody and Hagrid! So listen to them!”

“No one’s tried to attack me all year,” says Harry stubbornly. “No one’s done anything to me at all —”

“Except put your name in the Goblet of Fire,” I remind him. “And they must’ve done that for a reason, Harry. Snuffles is right. Maybe they’ve been biding their time. Maybe this is the task they’re going to get you.”

“Look,” says Harry impatiently, “let’s say Sirius is right, and someone Stunned Krum to kidnap Crouch. Well, they would’ve been in the trees near us, wouldn’t they? But they waited till I was out of the way until they acted, didn’t they? So it doesn’t look like I’m their target, does it?”

“They couldn’t have made it look like an accident if they’d murdered you in the forest!” says Hermione. “But if you die during a task —”

“They didn’t care about attacking Krum, did they?” says Harry. “Why didn’t they just polish me off at the same time? They could’ve made it look like Krum and I had a duel or something.”

“Harry, I don’t understand it either,” says Hermione desperately. “I just know there are a lot of odd things going on, and I don’t like it. . . . Moody’s right — Sirius is right — you’ve got to get in training for the third task, straight away. And you make sure you write back to Sirius and promise him you’re not going to go sneaking off alone again.”

The four of us share a solemn look, as the rest of the school and its guests chatter along around us. Why is it that we never seem to have a lighthearted moment of our own? 

* * *

The Hogwarts grounds never look more inviting than when we have to stay indoors. For the next few days we spent all of our free time either in the library with looking up hexes, or else in empty classrooms, which we sneak into to practice. Harry is concentrating on the Stunning Spell, which he has never used before. The trouble is that practicing it involves certain sacrifices on Ron’s, Hermione’s and my part.

If only there were easier ways to keep Harry alive. “Can’t we kidnap Mrs. Norris?” Ron suggests on Monday lunchtime as he lies flat on his back in the middle of our Charms classroom, having just been Stunned and reawoken by Harry for the fifth time in a row. “Let’s Stun her for a bit. Or you could use Dobby, Harry, I bet he’d do anything to help you. I’m not complaining or anything” — he gets gingerly to his feet, rubbing his backside — “but I’m aching all over. . . .”

I unconsciously rub my sore behind as well, having just finished my turn with Harry not a little while ago. He’s lucky that I care about having him come out of this tournament alive or I would have left him on his own long ago.

“Well, you keep missing the cushions, don’t you!” says Hermione impatiently, rearranging the pile of cushions we have used for the Banishing Spell, which Flitwick has left in a cabinet. “Just try and fall backward!”

“Once you’re Stunned, you can’t aim too well, Hermione!” says Ron angrily. “Why don’t you take a turn?”

“I hate to agree with him, but he’s got a point. I still can’t feel the tips of my fingers. Is that a bad thing?” I ask hesitantly, looking at my shaking hands.

“Well, I think Harry’s got it now, anyway,” says Hermione hastily. “And we don’t have to worry about Disarming, because he’s been able to do that for ages. . . . I think we ought to start on some of these hexes this evening.” She looks down the list we made in the library.

“I like the look of this one,” she says, “this Impediment Curse. Should slow down anything that’s trying to attack you, Harry. We’ll start with that one.”

The bell rings. We hastily shove the cushions back into Flitwick’s cupboard and slip out of the classroom.

“See you at dinner!” says Hermione, and she sets off for Arithmancy, while Harry, Ron, and I head towards North Tower, and Divination. I still swear that one of these days I’m going to smack her between the eyes. Broad strips of dazzling gold sunlight falls across the corridor from the high windows. The sky outside is so brightly blue it looks as though it has been enameled.

“It’s going to be boiling in Trelawney’s room, she never puts out that fire,” whines Ron as we start up the staircase towards the silver ladder and the trapdoor.

“Well maybe you can faint, and use it as an excuse to get out of class, while you go to the hospital wing.” I say attempting to be helpful.

Ron grins at me. “Hey, that’s brilliant Jame! I’d kiss you if you weren’t like my sister!” Ron exclaims. I shudder, and gag at the thought of Ron kissing me. It’d be like Luka kissing me, and that’s a horrifying thought. Great, now that ghastly image is stuck in my head.

Maybe it will make me sick, and I won’t have to participate in class today. Ron is quite right. The dimly lit room is swelteringly hot. The fumes from the perfumed fire are heavier than ever. My head swims as I make my way over to one of the curtained windows. While Professor Trelawney is looking the other way, disentangling her shawl from a lamp, I opened it an inch or so and settle back in my chintz armchair, so that a soft breeze plays across my face. It is extremely comfortable, and Harry scoots closer to me in order to share the breeze.

“My dears,” says Professor Trelawney, sitting down in her winged armchair in front of the class and peering around at us with her strangely enlarged eyes, “we have almost finished our work on planetary divination. Today, however, will be an excellent opportunity to examine the effects of Mars, for he is placed most interestingly at the present time. If you will all look this way, I will dim the lights. . . .”

She waves her wand and the lamps go out. The fire is the only source of light now. Professor Trelawney bends down and lifts, from under her chair, a miniature model of the solar system, contained within a glass dome. It is a beautiful thing; each of the moons glimmers in place around the nine planets and the fiery sun, all of them hanging in thin air beneath the glass. I watch lazily as Professor Trelawney begins to point out the fascinating angle Mars is making to Neptune.

Soon I allow myself to zone out for you practically never have to listen in Divination to get a good grade in the class. I’ve been bullshitting all of my assignments, and the Professor seems to think that I’m some sort of future diviner. As I let my mind wander, I think back to the new problem of mine that I have to deal with.

Since when have I become such a hothead? I mean, I’ve always hated when people are unfairly punished or picked on, but I never felt the need to pummel them, or say set them on fire with my blue flames. Those blue flames are beginning to become really cool now that I think about it, though I have yet to be able to reproduce them, though I’ve tried.

Suddenly a piercing scream, and a loud thud tears me out of my trance like state. I would know that scream anywhere since, I’ve been witness to it many times in the years that I’ve been friends with Harry Potter. Harry has toppled out of his chair, and is now writhing on the ground in pain clutching his head in pain, like someone had clubbed him in the forehead.

I realize with a jolt that he’s covering up his scar protectively. What’s happening to him? Ron is down on his knees by Harry in a second, and I’m not far behind him, crouching by Harry’s other side. “Harry, Harry!” Ron cries. It takes a few seconds, but Harry does open his eyes eventually.

“Phew. Hey there Boy Wonder. You had us worried there. If I didn’t know better, I would say that you need to join the school drama club.” I joke, trying to lessen the tension in the room.

“You all right?” Ron asks Harry after shooting me a dirty look.

“Of course he isn’t!” says Professor Trelawney, looking thoroughly excited. Her great eyes loom over Harry, gazing at him. “What was it, Potter? A premonition? An apparition? What did you see?”

“Nothing,” Harry lies. He sits up. I can see Harry shaking from here.

“You were clutching your scar!” says Professor Trelawney. “You were rolling on the floor, clutching your scar! Come now, Potter, I have experience in these matters!”

I would give anything to hit her right now, but I don’t think that Professor Dumbledore would excuse me for losing my temper in that way. Besides, it doesn’t feel like I’m losing control right now. This is only my irritation at the woman coming through.

Harry looks up at her. “I need to go to the hospital wing, I think,” he says. “Bad headache.”

“My dear, you were undoubtedly stimulated by the extraordinary clairvoyant vibrations of my room!” says Professor Trelawney. “If you leave now, you may lose the opportunity to see further than you have ever —”

“I don’t want to see anything except a headache cure,” snaps Harry. He stands up. The class backs away. They all looked unnerved, but I step forward to follow him out.

“See you later,” Harry mutters to Ron, and me and he picks up his bag and heads for the trapdoor, ignoring Professor Trelawney, who is wearing an expression of great frustration, as though she has just been denied a real treat. After a few minutes though the class settles back down and Ron takes up Harry’s seat next to me, so that we can talk.

“What do you think that’s all about?” He asks me curiously. I shake my head, while biting my lip.

“I don’t know, but whatever it is it’s not good. What’s worse though is that Harry’s keeping secrets from us again. I think that we all know what good secrets do to our group…” I say ominously. Ron sighs, and trains his gaze back on Trelawney like he was going to focus. I know that he’s not though, like any of us are going to be focusing for the rest of the day now. The mystery is only growing, and we seem to be right in the thick of it, as Harry Potter’s sworn guardians and protectors.

What have I gotten myself into?


	27. The Third Task

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything you recognize is J.K. Rowling's. Except Jamie, Luka, and Ariana.

Chapter 27- The Third Task

 

“Dumbledore reckons You-Know-Who’s getting stronger again as well?” Ron whispers.

Everything Harry saw in the Pensieve, nearly everything Dumbledore told and showed him afterwards, he has now shared with Ron, Hermione, and me — and, of course, with Sirius, to whom Harry sent an owl the moment he left Dumbledore’s office. We four sit up late in the common room once again that night, talking it all over until my mind is reeling.

Ron stares into the common room fire. I think I see Ron shiver slightly, even though the evening is warm.

“And he trusts Snape?” Ron says. “He really trusts Snape, even though he knows he was a Death Eater?”

“Yes,” says Harry. I grip my hands tighter at the thought of being taught by a former death eater, if he even is former. They took away so much from me, and now he has to hang around as a morbidly cruel reminder of that.

Hermione has not spoken for ten minutes. She is sitting with her forehead in her hands, staring at her knees. I think she too looks overwhelmed.

“Rita Skeeter,” she mutters finally.

“Please not again.” I groan, running my hands through my hair.

“How can you be worrying about her now?” says Ron, in utter disbelief.

“I’m not worrying about her,” Hermione says to her knees. “I’m just thinking . . . remember what she said to me in the Three Broomsticks? ‘I know things about Ludo Bagman that would make your hair curl.’ This is what she meant, isn’t it? She reported his trial, she knew he’d passed information to the Death Eaters. And Winky too, remember . . . ‘Ludo Bagman’s a bad wizard.’ Mr. Crouch would have been furious he got off, he would have talked about it at home.”

“Yeah, but Bagman didn’t pass information on purpose, did he?” Hermione shrugs.

“And Fudge reckons Madame Maxime attacked Crouch?” I ask, turning back to Harry.

“Yeah,” says Harry, “but he’s only saying that because Crouch disappeared near the Beauxbatons carriage.”

“We never thought of her, did we?” says Ron slowly. “Mind you, she’s definitely got giant blood, and she doesn’t want to admit it —”

“Of course she doesn’t,” snaps Hermione sharply, looking up. “Look what happened to Hagrid when Rita found out about his mother. Look at Fudge, jumping to conclusions about her, just because she’s part giant. Who needs that sort of prejudice? I’d probably say I had big bones if I knew that’s what I’d get for telling the truth.”

Hermione looks at her watch. “We haven’t done any practicing!” she says, looking shocked. “We were going to do the Impediment Curse! We’ll have to really get down to it tomorrow! Come on, Harry, you need to get some sleep.”

With that Hermione jumps to her feet and looks expectantly at us to follow her lead. Slowly the three of us get up from the comfortable couches, and bid our goodnights. I have a feeling that Hermione is going to be drilling Harry, and by default us hard tomorrow. I follow Hermione up the spiraling stone steps until we get to the fourth year dormitories.

“What do you think of it all?” Hermione asks me softly as we push open the door, to reveal the snores of Lavender Brown. Quietly we make our way over to our beds, so as to not wake up the beauty queens. If woken Lavender and Parvati would whine for an hour about how they were so rudely woken. Unfortunately I know this from experience.

“I think that something very fishy is going on, but that we’re not going to make sense of it until more pieces fall into place. Goodnight Mione.” I tell her, climbing into my bed, and pulling the curtains closed around it. There is no way that I’m going to be able to fall asleep with a head as full of thoughts as mine is.

* * *

 

Ron, Hermione, and I are supposed to be studying for our exams, which will finish on the day of the third task, but we are putting most of our efforts into helping Harry prepare. A dead friend wouldn’t do us any good after all.

“Don’t worry about it,” Hermione says shortly when Harry points this out to us and says he doesn’t mind practicing on his own for a while, “at least we’ll get top marks in Defense Against the Dark Arts. We’d never have found out about all these hexes in class.”

“Good training for when we’re all Aurors,” says Ron excitedly, attempting the Impediment Curse on a wasp that has buzzed into the room and making it stop dead in midair.

I freeze the wasp, and give Harry a level look. “I’m actually pretty prepared for my exams. When not here helping you, Luka and Ariana have kidnapped me and held me hostage in the library with all our books. I swear that when I close my eyes I see words on the back of my eyelids.” I shudder. Harry snorts at that.

I wanted to veer away from the thought that we were all going to be aurors. What if I didn’t want to be an auror? I barely know what I want to do for the rest of today let alone the rest of my life. Could I handle a job where I could be potentially in danger everyday?

The mood in the castle as we enter June becomes excited and tense again. Everyone is looking forward to the third task, which will take place a week before the end of term. Harry is practicing hexes at every available moment. He feels more confident about this task than either of the others. Difficult and dangerous though it will undoubtedly be, Moody is right: Harry has managed to find his way past monstrous creatures and enchanted barriers before now, and this time he has some notice, some chance to prepare himself for what lay ahead. That relieves me the most.

Tired of walking in on Harry, Hermione, Ron, and me all over the school, Professor McGonagall has given us permission to use the empty Transfiguration classroom at lunchtimes. Harry has soon mastered the Impediment Curse, a spell to slow down and obstruct attackers; the Reductor Curse, which will enable him to blast solid objects out of his way; and the Four-Point Spell, a useful discovery of Hermione’s that would make his wand point due north, therefore enabling him to check whether he was going in the right direction within the maze. He is still having trouble with the Shield Charm, though. This is supposed to cast a temporary, invisible wall around himself that deflected minor curses; Hermione manages to shatter it with a well-placed Jelly-Legs Jinx, and Harry wobbles around the room for ten minutes afterwards before she looked up the counter-jinx.

I was attempting to help with all the charms since it took me half as long as the others to master the charms, but it turns out that I am not that very good of a teacher. I grin at the thought, thanking Merlin that I will not have to be stuck at school for longer than my required seven years.

“You’re still doing really well, though,” Hermione says encouragingly, looking down her list and crossing off those spells we have already learned. “Some of these are bound to come in handy.”

“Yeah Harry, at least you got the spell to appear. That’s more than Ron can say.” I attempt to cheer my friend up. Ron glares at me, while Harry just blinks.

“Coming from the girl who has perfect mastery of every charm that we have learned to date.” Harry grumbles back.

“Come and look at this,” says Ron, who is standing by the window. He is staring down onto the grounds. “What’s Malfoy doing?” That immediately has my interest.

Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle are standing in the shadow of a tree below. Crabbe and Goyle seem to be keeping a lookout; both are smirking. Malfoy is holding his hand up to his mouth and speaking into it.

“He looks like he’s using a walkie-talkie,” says Harry curiously.

“He can’t be,” says Hermione, “I’ve told you, those sorts of things don’t work around Hogwarts. Come on, Harry,” she adds briskly, turning away from the window and moving back into the middle of the room, “let’s try that Shield Charm again.”

With that Harry groans, and Ron and I share a confused look. “What’s a walkie-talkie?” I ask.

* * *

 

Breakfast is a very noisy affair at the Gryffindor table on the morning of the third task. The post owls appear, bringing Harry a good-luck card from Sirius. It is only a piece of parchment, folded over and bearing a muddy paw print on its front, but Harry appreciates it all the same. A screech owl arrives for Hermione, carrying her morning copy of the Daily Prophet as usual. She unfolds the paper, glances at the front page, and spits out a mouthful of pumpkin juice all over it.

“What?” says Harry, Ron, and I together, staring at her.

“Nothing,” says Hermione quickly, trying to shove the paper out of sight, but Ron grabs it. He stares at the headline and says, “No way. Not today. That old cow.”

I have the distinct feeling that I am not going to like this article one little bit. It seems like Hermione is thinking along those same lines, for she waves her hand in the direction of the Hufflepuff table, and suddenly Ariana Dumbledore is slipping into the seat on my left.

To say the least it shocks people in the hall that a Hufflepuff is sitting at the Gryffindor table, but truthfully weirder things have happened before. “I guess that we’re going to be practicing our breathing exercises with a volatile situation today.” Ariana says softly. She scoots over so that her arm and hip is pressed next to mine.

“Okay, let’s get this disaster over with Gryffindors.” She says calmly, placing her hand on my knee. I freeze for a moment, not suspecting the contact, before I relax into it.

“What?” says Harry. “Rita Skeeter again?”

“No,” says Ron, and just like Hermione, he attempts to push the paper out of sight.

“It’s about me, isn’t it?” says Harry.

“No,” says Ron, in an entirely unconvincing tone.

But before Harry can demand to see the paper, Draco Malfoy shouts across the Great Hall from the Slytherin table.

“Hey, Potter! Potter! How’s your head? You feeling all right? Sure you’re not going to go berserk on us?” Oh I’m so not going to like this, and it may end up with me setting Malfoy or Skeeter on fire.

Malfoy is holding a copy of the Daily Prophet too. Slytherins up and down the table are sniggering, twisting in their seats to see Harry’s reaction.

“Let me see it,” Harry says to Ron. “Give it here.” Very reluctantly, Ron hands over the newspaper. Harry turns it over and finds himself staring at his own picture, beneath the banner headline, while I read along with him:

 

HARRY POTTER “DISTURBED AND DANGEROUS”

The boy who defeated He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is unstable and possibly dangerous, writes Rita Skeeter, Special Correspondent. Alarming evidence has recently come to light about Harry Potter’s strange behavior, which casts doubts upon his suitability to compete in a demanding competition like the Triwizard Tournament, or even to attend Hogwarts School.

Potter, the Daily Prophet can exclusively reveal, regularly collapses at school, and is often heard to complain of pain in the scar on his forehead (relic of the curse with which You-Know-Who attempted to kill him). On Monday last, midway through a Divination lesson, your Daily Prophet reporter witnessed Potter storming from the class, claiming that his scar was hurting too badly to continue studying.

It is possible, say top experts at St. Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, that Potter’s brain was affected by the attack inflicted upon him by You-Know-Who, and that his insistence that the scar is still hurting is an expression of his deep-seated confusion.

“He might even be pretending,” said one specialist. “This could be a plea for attention.”

The Daily Prophet, however, has unearthed worrying facts about Harry Potter that Albus Dumbledore, headmaster of Hogwarts, has carefully concealed from the Wizarding public.

“Potter can speak Parseltongue,” reveals Draco Malfoy, a Hogwarts fourth year. “There were a lot of attacks on students a couple of years ago, and most people thought Potter was behind them after they saw him lose his temper at a dueling club and set a snake on another boy. It was all hushed up, though. But he’s made friends with werewolves and giants too. We think he’d do anything for a bit of power.”

Parseltongue, the ability to converse with snakes, has long been considered a Dark Art. Indeed, the most famous Parselmouth of our times is none other than You-Know-Who himself. A member of the Dark Force Defense League, who wished to remain unnamed, stated that he would regard any wizard who could speak Parseltongue “as worthy of investigation. Personally, I would be highly suspicious of anybody who could converse with snakes, as serpents are often used in the worst kinds of Dark Magic, and are historically associated with evildoers.” Similarly, “anyone who seeks out the company of such vicious creatures as werewolves and giants would appear to have a fondness for violence.”

Albus Dumbledore should surely consider whether a boy such as this should be allowed to compete in the Triwizard Tournament. Some fear that Potter might resort to the Dark Arts in his desperation to win the tournament, the third task of which takes place this evening.

 

“Gone off me a bit, hasn’t she?” says Harry lightly, folding up the paper.

Over at the Slytherin table, Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle are laughing at him, tapping their heads with their fingers, pulling grotesquely mad faces, and waggling their tongues like snakes.

I clench my fists in anger at the horrific article. I need so badly to just get to Skeeter, but the pressure of Ariana’s hand on my knee strengthens. I let out a breath that I had been keeping in shakily, and turn my head to see the blond girl smiling at me.

“See that wasn’t so hard was it?” She asks me softly. I shake my head slowly, knowing that if the Dumbledore wasn’t there, that my new friend blue fire would have made another appearance.

“I still feel like I need to punch something.” I admit softly. Ariana merely chuckles, and strokes my knee absently, making me freeze under her touch. She doesn’t seem to notice thankfully.

“But you haven’t so I’d call that an improvement.” Ariana tells me. I shudder, and place my hand over hers that’s on my knee. I give her hand a soft squeeze.

“Yes, but now I’ve become reliant on you.” I sigh hating the fact that I can no longer seem to control myself properly.

“Is that such a bad thing?” She husks softly. I shake my head quickly, and she chuckles, before pulling away from me, and standing up from the table.

“Well this has been fun Gryffindors.” And with that she’s gone back to the Hufflepuff table. I close my eyes for a second before focusing back in on the conversation that had been going on around me.

“How did she know your scar hurt in Divination?” Ron asks Harry. “There’s no way she was there, there’s no way she could’ve heard —”

“The window was open,” says Harry. “Jamie opened it so we could breathe.”

“You were at the top of North Tower!” Hermione says. “Your voice couldn’t have carried all the way down to the grounds!”

“Well, you’re the one who’s supposed to be researching magical methods of bugging!” says Harry. “You tell me how she did it!”

“I’ve been trying!” says Hermione. “But I . . . but . . .” An odd, dreamy expression suddenly comes over Hermione’s face. She slowly raises a hand and runs her fingers through her hair.

“Are you all right?” I ask, frowning at her.

“Yes,” says Hermione breathlessly. She runs her fingers through her hair again, and then holds her hand up to her mouth, as though speaking into an invisible walkie-talkie. Harry, Ron, and I stare at each other.

“I’ve had an idea,” Hermione says, gazing into space. “I think I know . . . because then no one would be able to see . . . even Moody . . . and she’d have been able to get onto the window ledge . . . but she’s not allowed . . . she’s definitely not allowed . . . I think we’ve got her! Just give me two seconds in the library — just to make sure!”

With that, Hermione seizes her school bag and dashes out of the Great Hall.

“Oi!” Ron calls after her. “We’ve got our History of Magic exam in ten minutes! Blimey,” he says, turning back to us, “she must really hate that Skeeter woman to risk missing the start of an exam. What’re you going to do in Binns’s class — read again?”

“Merlin I hope not. If I have to read about some troll rebellion again, I think I’m going to fall asleep and just never wake up again.” I groan, finally starting to feel normal again, which is great.

“S’pose so,” Harry says to Ron; but just then, Professor McGonagall comes walking alongside the Gryffindor table towards him.

“Potter, the champions are congregating in the chamber off the Hall after breakfast,” she says.

“But the task’s not till tonight!” says Harry, accidentally spilling scrambled eggs down his front, afraid he had mistaken the time.

“I’m aware of that, Potter,” she says. “The champions’ families are invited to watch the final task, you know. This is simply a chance for you to greet them.” She moves away. Harry gapes after her.

“She doesn’t expect the Dursleys to turn up, does she?” he asks us blankly.

“Dunno,” says Ron. “Harry, we’d better hurry, I’m going to be late for Binns. See you later.” I wave by to Harry as well before following Ron towards out History of Magic exam or more aptly named, our doom.

* * *

 

Finally the dreaded exam is over, and its time for lunch. I think that my stomach was the only thing fueling me through those last few questions. Afterwards, all I could do was keep my head on the desk, and think that soon I would be free of boring, dusty, torture.

Ron and I walked out of the classroom together, commiserating on what we thought that we had gotten right, and what we had totally and irrevocably gotten wrong. I have a feeling that there will be more wrong for Ron than right. Hopefully I manage to pass this exam at least.

We sit down at the table and start loading food onto our plates, as it is much needed at this point for us to be sustained. “Mum — Bill!” says Ron, looking stunned, Harry, Mrs. Weasley, and Bill join the table. “What’re you doing here?”

“Come to watch Harry in the last task!” says Mrs. Weasley brightly. She scoops Ron into a strong hug, then turns to me.

“Jamie dear! Good to see that you’re all right!” Mrs. Weasley exclaims bringing me in for a bone crushing hug that I return. It hits me right then, how much I had really needed a hug like that after everything that been going on with Harry, and with me this year. Molly releases me, and looks around the hall for the Ravenclaw table.

“Now to get that brother of yours.” She says good-naturedly. She doesn’t have to worry though, for Luka comes to her accepting the backbreaking hug, and well wishes. He eventually returns to his own table though, for he doesn’t wish to sit with all the Gryffindors.

“I must say, it makes a lovely change, not having to cook. How was your exam?” Mrs. Weasley says sitting down beside Bill, across form us.

“Oh . . . okay,” says Ron. “Couldn’t remember all the goblin rebels’ names, so I invented a few. It’s all right,” he says, helping himself to a Cornish pasty, while Mrs. Weasley looks stern, “they’re all called stuff like Bodrod the Bearded and Urg the Unclean; it wasn’t hard.”

Fred, George, and Ginny come to sit next to us too, and I’m having such a good time I feel almost as though I am back at the Burrow; I had forgotten to worry about that evening’s task, and not until Hermione turns up, halfway through lunch, do I remember that she had had a brainwave about Rita Skeeter.

“Are you going to tell us — ?” I start. Hermione shakes her head warningly and glances at Mrs. Weasley.

“Hello, Hermione,” says Mrs. Weasley, much more stiffly than usual. Oh great we’re still in battle mode between the two of them are we? I’m not looking forward to this.

“Hello,” says Hermione, her smile faltering at the cold expression on Mrs. Weasley’s face. Someone is going to have to do something about this fast.

Harry looks between them, then says, “Mrs. Weasley, you didn’t believe that rubbish Rita Skeeter wrote in Witch Weekly, did you? Because Hermione’s not my girlfriend.”

“Oh!” says Mrs. Weasley. “No — of course I didn’t!” But she becomes considerably warmer towards Hermione after that. I send Harry a grateful smile, and he grins back at me. There is indeed a reason why he’s quite the Boy Wonder, scar or no scar.

We laze around that afternoon until it is time to go back for the Great Feast before the third task. Ludo Bagman and Cornelius Fudge have joined the staff table now. Bagman looks quite cheerful, but Cornelius Fudge, who is sitting next to Madame Maxime, looks stern and is not talking. Madame Maxime is concentrating on her plate, and I think her eyes look red. Hagrid keeps glancing along the table at her.

There are more courses than usual, but Harry, who is starting to feel really nervous now, doesn’t eat much, not that I blame him. As the enchanted ceiling overhead begins to fade from blue to a dusky purple, Dumbledore rises to his feet at the staff table, and silence falls. This is it; the tournament is about to start its final leg. I can’t help but let the thrills of anticipation get to me.

“Ladies and gentlemen, in five minutes’ time, I will be asking you to make your way down to the Quidditch field for the third and final task of the Triwizard Tournament. Will the champions please follow Mr. Bagman down to the stadium now.”

As Harry gets up to follow Bagman, the Gryffindor table leaps to its feet to roar with applause for Harry. The Weasleys, Hermione, and I wish Harry good luck personally, and I watch as one of my best friends disappears out of my sight. Oh I hope that this will work. Don’t you dare get yourself killed Potter! I will never forgive you if you do.

* * *

 

They had completely destroyed my Quidditch pitch. That’s the first thought that comes to my mind when our rather large and slightly odd group files into the stands. Fred and George look just as thunderstruck as I do by the twenty foot high hedge that runs all the way around the pitch.

“Monsters every last one of them.” Fred says vehemently.

“Off with their heads!” George decrees. Mrs. Weasley shoots the twins a scathing look each before turning back around to converse with Hermione and Luka. The two of them will manage to keep her occupied and not as worried as she usually would be for the duration of the wait time, while the final task is running.

Ginny slips onto the bench beside me, with Ariana flanking my other side. Her outfit was one of wonder yet again, for on one cheek the crest of Hufflepuff is emblazoned, and on the other the proud Gryffindor lion roars. “I can root for both Cedric and Harry can’t I?” She says simply to the unasked question. Fred and George take up seats directly behind us, so that we can hear their commentary the whole time.

“I’m a bit nervous. Are you Jamie? Harry’s going to be in there all alone, and all the other champions know a lot more magic than he does.” Ginny tells me as she squeezes closer, because of the tight ranks that we’re all having to form, to fit in the stands.

“He’ll be fine Gin, or at least he better be. I gave up all my free time for a month to help Harry learn some new charms.” I tell her. Ron snorts from behind us on George’s left side.

“You mean that you showed off you charms genius, while watching us flounder.” He says. I roll my eyes, and turn my gaze up to address Ron.

“I can’t help it if teaching academia isn’t where my strengths lie. I just happen to be adept at it, I can’t explain that.” I say truthfully. Before any more bickering can be started up though, a loud throat clearing is heard from the small form of Ludo Bagman below.

“Ladies and gentlemen, the third and final task of the Triwizard Tournament is about to begin! Let me remind you how the points currently stand! Tied in first place, with eighty-five points each — Mr. Cedric Diggory and Mr. Harry Potter, both of Hogwarts School!” The cheers and applause send birds from the Forbidden Forest fluttering into the darkening sky. “In second place, with eighty points — Mr. Viktor Krum, of Durmstrang Institute!” More applause. “And in third place — Miss Fleur Delacour, of Beauxbatons Academy!”

We watch the Champions standing down there, and Harry waves to us, so his cheering section the Weasleys, two Pendragons, a Granger, and a Dumbledore wave back at him wildly. I know that he can do this. I just know that Harry will make it though! He can probably even win this thing!

Harry and Cedric Diggory line up in front of the big dark opening to the maze. Oh boy, this is where all the fun for Harry begins. Okay so maybe not so much fun but still. I am probably going to get driven mad worrying about him while just sitting here like a bump in a log in the stands.

“So . . . on my whistle, Harry and Cedric!” says Bagman. “Three — two — one —”

He gives a short blast on his whistle, and Harry and Cedric hurry forward into the maze. I watch the retreating red back of Harry until he is totally absorbed the darkness around him. Please be prepared for this Harry.

After all the champions had been sent into the maze, all that was left was the buzzing, excited murmurs of the crowd. “So… what are the odds on Harry?” Ron asks suddenly breaking the lull of silence that had fallen over us. Ginny, Ariana, and I turn around in our seats to face the boys. This was definitely going to be an interesting response.

“48% think Cedric will win, 44% on Harry, and 8% on Krum.” George relays, pulling out a sheet of paper from his pocket.

“The bets on Krum are the highest since he has the lowest expectancy to win.” Fred adds, with a manic glee in his eye. I shake my head at the twins. Only they would find better on the winner, the loser, and who will most likely die in the tournament entertaining.

As an hour slowly slips by, the members of the audience start to get a little nervous, especially when the professors bring out Victor Krum and Fleur Delacour. It’s safe to say that both of them are not in the greatest of shape. That leaves Cedric Diggory and Harry still in the maze. Has one of them gotten to the cup?

Is this whole tournament finally over? Should we have heard something by now? All of these questions race through my head, and I smile gratefully at Ariana when she distracts me with conversation. It’s almost another hour later when with a flash of light; Harry, Cedric, and the cup appear on the stage before the stands. Neither of them are standing, and the cup is forgotten instantly.

Dumbledore and the judges race forward to understand what is happening. Harry climbs closer to Cedric holding him closer to him, and crying over him. As more people start to surround the two champions lying on the ground a horrified shout starts to come over the crowd. “Oh my!”

“No it can’t be!”

“Diggory!”

“Cedric Diggory is…”

“Is dead! CEDRIC DIGGORY IS DEAD!”

Ariana stiffens in her seat next to me, as we watch Dumbledore and Moody whisk Harry away from Cedric, and his weeping and wailing parents. I lose track of them however because of the outcry, and mourning that’s suddenly swept over the crowd. I turn to Ariana worriedly for she was his friend, in his house after all. Silent tears are streaming down her face, as her gaze stays glued on where she had last seen Cedric’s body, though you can no longer see him now.

The loudest sounds are the wails of Cedric’s mother, and the booming “no” of his father. Slowly I reach out and grasp Ariana’s hand, not a hundred percent sure what to do. She is the one who is always so good at the comforting of others. There’s a reason why it’s so easy to relax around her. I on the other hand have no clue as in how to comfort her.

It seems like my gesture is enough though, for I soon have an armful of sobbing Ariana Dumbledore to care for. I draw her closer to me, making cooing noises, while rubbing my hands up and down her back. Over her shoulder I make frantic eye contact with Mrs. Weasley.

I have no idea what I’m doing, but she’s done this plenty of times. I feel like she really should intervene here, and give Ariana the best comfort possible. All Mrs. Weasley does though, is gather Ginny and Ron close to her and give me a gentle nod.

I guess there’s nothing else that I can be doing for her right now. This is what she needs at the moment. Luka squeezes over to us, and wraps his arm around her back so that she’s in the middle of a Pendragon hug, something that she used to love as a kid.

“It’s going to be okay Ariana. I promise, it’ll get better.” Luka whispers softly, trying sooth the still sobbing girl. We could understand the pain that she’s feeling. We’ve all lost people that we love here. There’s no doubt about it.

Slowly people started moving up towards the castle. “Harry! We have to check on him!” Mrs. Weasley exclaimed suddenly, and she started pushing her way through the sluggish crowd and up towards the castle.

“We’d better go make sure that no one gets hurt by her.” Ginny says uneasily before running off after her mum, with Hermione and Ron on her tail. The twins share halfhearted grins, and follow suit. I look at Luka from over Ariana’s shoulder. We have been still holding the girl through all this.

“I think we should go up to the castle Ari.” I tell her softly beginning to shift her out of my arms.

“Yeah you’ll get cold if you stay out here too much longer.” Luka agrees shifting back so that we can start getting up. Ariana makes a whimper of protest at the movement, before allowing me to detach her, and help her up. Before we can get too far though, she latches her hand onto mine in a death grip. Luka is a few paces in front of us clearing a path.

“Is there anything I can do for you?” I ask her softly. Ariana raises of puffy red eyes to mine, and I can see nothing but sadness in them.

“J-just keep holding m-my hand…” She sniffles. I bite my lip, and nod my head resolutely, strengthening my hold on her hand. With that we following Luka up the winding path back to the castle, slowly but surely. I never let go of Ariana’s hand.


	28. The Parting of the Ways

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything you recognize is J.K. Rowling's. Except Jamie, Luka, and Ariana.

Chapter 28- The Parting of the Ways

 

I knew that people sometimes shut down when faced with extreme emotional situations, but I was seriously starting to worry about Ariana Dumbledore. She only spoke one word replies when asked direct yes or no questions, all the way to the hospital room.

Madam Pomfrey was already busy tending to the wounds of Victor Krum and Fleur Delacour, but when she laid eyes on Ariana, a grim expression settled there. “Pendragon, bring her over to a cot.” She snaps, and with a nod of my head, I lead her to an empty bed.

Luka is shooting glances at the worried Delacour family crowding around the battered body of Fleur. The young Gabrielle was looking particularly lost while waiting to see if her big sister was going to be all right. I help Ariana down onto the soft bed, and attempt to extract my hand from hers gently, but if anything her grip tightens.

I glance at Luka worriedly. He seems torn between staying and comforting the unresponsive Ariana, or going to the lost and ignored little girl. “Luka, I’ll be fine here. Just go all ready.” I say softly. He jumps startled, but then turns back to the small blond girl. I know that he had talked to her after her rescue in the lake. I guess that she made more of an impression than first thought.

“I— I don’t know what you mean.” Luka sputters trying to cover up his shock. I sigh and rub my thumb softly over the back of Ariana’s hand.

“Despite common belief, I am smarter than I act. I will be fine here, I’m not going anywhere.” I promise him. Luka nods his head once, and presses a soft kiss to Ariana’s forehead, before walking over to the scared and forgotten girl. I let out a long breath of air, and kneel down in front of the shell shocked Dumbledore.

“Its just you and me now Ari. I am so sorry for your loss. I know that he was a good friend. You talked about him a lot, and he seemed like a good mate.” I tell her softly, continuing to slowly stroke her hand. Ariana’s dull brown eyes finally raise, and I can see the start of tears swimming in them again.

“P-please… hold me…” She pleads her voice breaking halfway through the begging plea. I get up quickly, and sit next to her on the bed. In less than a second Ariana is wrapped around my torso, and crying into my shoulder. I rub my hand slowly up and down her back, wishing that I can take away some of her pain. My mind is plagued with worry though, for one of my best friends was hurting as well, and I have no idea how he is.

The really worried part of me is stuck on the fact that I had seen blood on him. I rest my head on Ariana’s and start humming the soft tune that I could remember from the vestiges of my memory. I’m pretty sure that it was a song that my mum used to sing to me to calm me down when I was younger.

It seems to work a little bit, for Ariana is able to start getting her breathing under control. Suddenly the doors to the hospital wing open, and all of Harry’s cheering section comes in lead by Mrs. Weasley. She has a frantic look on her face. I know that she considers Harry as one of her sons. She seems to like taking in unfortunate strays. The only problem is that Harry still has the Dursleys to live with.

“Harry! Is he here? Harry!” Mrs. Weasley cries panic beginning to overtake her.

“Don’t worry Mum. If he isn’t here he’s most likely with Professor Dumbledore.” Fred says trying to contain his mum’s frantic worrying.

“Yeah Mum. Dumbledore will let nothing happen to him.” George agrees patting her shoulder comfortingly. I startle when the bed moves in front of me. I look up from my position comforting Ariana, to see Ginny and Hermione sitting on the bed across from us.

“Is she okay?” Hermione asks me. I bite my lip, and look down at the girl. Ariana’s eyes are closed, but her grip on my shirt is still iron clad.

“She cried herself to sleep… I don’t know what to do. Ari was close to Cedric. I’ve never really talked to him all that much myself but well you saw them at the World Cup she went with the Diggorys. I don’t know… I— I just wish that we could stop having so much death.” I say brokenly, thinking about all the people that our group has lost collectively.

Luka, Harry, Ariana, and I all have lost both parents. That’s six grownups out of ten who are dead. Not very good statistics if you ask me. “I don’t think I could handle losing someone that close to me.” Ginny says quietly looking at Ariana and me. I give her a solemn look.

“Let’s keep it so that you’ll never have to, huh?” I say with a gentle smile. Ginny smiles back accepting the hand that I hold out to her. She switches to the bed that I’m sitting on with Ariana, so that she can lean into my other side. Ginny snuggles close, and I can almost believe that we’re back at the Burrow cuddled on the couch close together, listening to Mr. Weasley tells us muggle stories.

“I’d like to know exactly what happened.” Hermione says, scooting over when Ron comes to sit down next to her.

“Bloody hell. I can’t believe that he’s dead. I mean this tournament was supposed to be hard, but I never thought that someone would actually die.” Ron says rather loudly. Hermione smacks him hard on the arm to get him quiet though. Mrs. Weasley is talking in quiet conversation with Madam Pomfrey, while Fred and George are going over their betting sheet to figure out who exactly won, and gets what.

Luka is sitting on another bed rather close to Gabrielle, playing a game with her. “Harry will tell us everything that we need to know when he gets back. I don’t suggest overwhelming him though. I have a feeling that he saw what— what happened to Cedric. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.” I say softly.

We sit in silence then. Ariana is still firmly asleep against me, but I decide that she would get cramped and uncomfortable if I allowed her to still be sitting like that. So I nudged Ginny for her to get up, and I untangled Ariana from me after a small fight, and laid her down on the bed fully, pulling up the blanket at the end of the bed over her.

We all waited growing more nervous and uncomfortable as the hour grew later. Why wasn’t Harry here? I would have thought for sure that they would have brought him here when they were done finding out what exactly went wrong. Five minutes later though, we got our answer, as the doors opened and in comes Dumbledore, Harry, and a big black dog.

Oh they brought Sirius with them. Mrs. Weasley let out a strangled cry of relief at seeing Harry standing there, shaken, but still alive. I let out a relieved breath of my own, as I watch Mrs. Weasley rush to Harry. Dumbledore steps in between them, before she can hug Harry.

“Molly,” he says, holding up a hand, “please listen to me for a moment. Harry has been through a terrible ordeal tonight. He has just had to relive it for me. What he needs now is sleep, and peace, and quiet. If he would like you all to stay with him,” he adds, looking around at all of us too, “you may do so. But I do not want you questioning him until he is ready to answer, and certainly not this evening.”

Mrs. Weasley nods. She is very white. She rounds on Ron, Hermione, Fred, George, Ginny, Luka, and me as though we are being noisy, and hisses, “Did you hear? He needs quiet!”

“Headmaster,” says Madam Pomfrey, staring at the great black dog that is Sirius, “may I ask what — ?”

“This dog will be remaining with Harry for a while,” says Dumbledore simply. “I assure you, he is extremely well trained. Harry — I will wait while you get into bed.”

We all watched as Harry crawled into one of the beds across the way, with Madam Pomfrey hovering beside him, and Sirius the dog on the other side of the bed. “I will be back to see you as soon as I have met with Fudge, Harry,” says Dumbledore. “I would like you to remain here tomorrow until I have spoken to the school.” He turns to leave, but catches a quick glance at his granddaughter sleeping on one of the other beds.

He walks over to her, and I meet him there, since I’ve been sticking close, incase she needed something when she woke up. “She’s just sad. Ariana was really close to Cedric.” I tell him softly. Professor Dumbledore flicks his gaze up to me from her. He gives me a knowing and thankful look, before bending down, and giving her a kiss on the forehead.

“I trust that she’s in capable hands.” He says as he turns for the doors, and vanishes out of sight. I look over at the big congregation over by Harry’s bed, along with Madam Pomfrey trying to force a sleeping draught down him. Luka comes over and stands next to me.

“I would have thought that you’d be over there fawning over him with the rest of them.” He says softly, so as not to wake up Ariana behind us.

“He’s well cared for. I’m right where I need to be.” I say lightly Luka flicks his gaze at me, then reaches down, and squeezes my hand.

“Yeah, we’re where we need to be.” He responds just and lightly.

* * *

 

We really hadn’t moved all that much in the few hours that Harry had managed to be asleep for. Ariana had woken up crying again, and Madam Pomfrey had been by her side, before I could turn back to help her. She finally managed to give her a calming draught that seemed to soothe her frazzled nerves. That didn’t stop her from needing reassurance though.

Ariana had only had to hold her hand out to me with that heartbroken look on her face, for me to go over, and sit back against the wall, with her curled into my side. I’m not exactly sure when our relationships grew this close, but I’m glad that I’m able to do something to help comfort her in her time of need. Everything was calm with Fred, George, Ron, and Ginny having a Wizarding Chess tournament, while Hermione read from one of her huge books, with Luka reading over her shoulder.

The calmness of the room was destroyed by the sound of running and loud voices approaching the hospital wing quickly.

“They’ll wake him if they don’t shut up!” Mrs. Weasley hisses from her position near Harry’s bed.

“What are they shouting about? Nothing else can have happened, can it?” Bill says having come an hour ago from helping clean up the mess that was made of the tournament ground.

“That’s Fudge’s voice,” Mrs. Weasley says. “And that’s Minerva McGonagall’s, isn’t it? But what are they arguing about?” I glance down at Ariana next to me, and see that she’s listening to everything going on with a morbid curiosity as well.

“Regrettable, but all the same, Minerva —” Cornelius Fudge is saying loudly.

“You should never have brought it inside the castle!” yells Professor McGonagall. “When Dumbledore finds out —”

The hospital doors burst open again and in comes Cornelius Fudge with Professor McGonagall, and Snape trailing behind him. I wonder what the heck they’re doing in here where people are recovering?

“Where’s Dumbledore?” Fudge demands of Mrs. Weasley.

“He’s not here,” says Mrs. Weasley angrily. “This is a hospital wing, Minister, don’t you think you’d do better to —”

But the door opens, and Dumbledore comes sweeping up the ward. “What has happened?” says Dumbledore sharply, looking from Fudge to Professor McGonagall. “Why are you disturbing these people? Minerva, I’m surprised at you — I asked you to stand guard over Barty Crouch —”

“There is no need to stand guard over him anymore, Dumbledore!” she shrieks. “The Minister has seen to that!” I have a really bad feeling about this.

I have never seen Professor McGonagall lose control like this. There are angry blotches of color in her cheeks, and her hands are balled into fists; she is trembling with fury.

“When we told Mr. Fudge that we had caught the Death Eater responsible for tonight’s events,” says Snape, in a low voice, “he seemed to feel his personal safety was in question. He insisted on summoning a dementor to accompany him into the castle. He brought it up to the office where Barty Crouch —”

“I told him you would not agree, Dumbledore!” Professor McGonagall fumes. “I told him you would never allow dementors to set foot inside the castle, but —”

“My dear woman!” roars Fudge, who likewise looks angrier than I have ever seen him, “as Minister of Magic, it is my decision whether I wish to bring protection with me when interviewing a possibly dangerous —”

But Professor McGonagall’s voice drowns Fudge’s. “The moment that — that thing entered the room,” she screams, pointing at Fudge, trembling all over, “it swooped down on Crouch and — and —”

I feel a chill in my stomach as Professor McGonagall struggles to find words to describe what had happened. Ariana shivers and pushes closer to me. I do not need her to finish her sentence. I know what the dementor must have done. It administered its fatal Kiss to Barty Crouch, who I guess was responsible for putting Harry’s name into the goblet. It sucked his soul out through his mouth. He is worse than dead.

“By all accounts, he is no loss!” blusters Fudge. “It seems he has been responsible for several deaths!”

“That makes you no better than that man Minister, if you do not value life just like he does.” I speak up from my place. Fudge’s eyes snap towards me, and Ariana tightens her grip on my shirt. Luka shoots me a bewildered look. Mrs. Weasley looks half proud, and half appalled. Dumbledore speaks as to take the attention off of me.

“But he cannot now give testimony, Cornelius,” says Dumbledore. He is staring hard at Fudge, as though seeing him plainly for the first time. “He cannot give evidence about why he killed those people.”

“Why he killed them? Well, that’s no mystery, is it?” blusters Fudge. “He was a raving lunatic! From what Minerva and Severus have told me, he seems to have thought he was doing it all on You-Know-Who’s instructions!” I feel my blood run cold. Voldemort’s orders, oh please no.

“Lord Voldemort was giving him instructions, Cornelius,” Dumbledore says. “Those people’s deaths were mere by-products of a plan to restore Voldemort to full strength again. The plan succeeded. Voldemort has been restored to his body.” I feel the breath catch in my chest, and now its Ariana pulling me closer to her, for now I’m suddenly shaking.

Fudge looks as though someone has just swung a heavy weight into his face. Dazed and blinking, he stares back at Dumbledore as if he can’t quite believe what he has just heard. He begins to sputter, still goggling at Dumbledore.

“You-Know-Who . . . returned? Preposterous. Come now, Dumbledore . . .”

“As Minerva and Severus have doubtless told you,” says Dumbledore, “we heard Barty Crouch confess. Under the influence of Veritaserum, he told us how he was smuggled out of Azkaban, and how Voldemort — learning of his continued existence from Bertha Jorkins — went to free him from his father and used him to capture Harry. The plan worked, I tell you. Crouch has helped Voldemort to return.”

“See here, Dumbledore,” says Fudge, and I am astonished to see a slight smile dawning on his face, “you — you can’t seriously believe that. You-Know-Who — back? Come now, come now . . . certainly, Crouch may have believed himself to be acting upon You-Know-Who’s orders — but to take the word of a lunatic like that, Dumbledore . . .”

“When Harry touched the Triwizard Cup tonight, he was transported straight to Voldemort,” says Dumbledore steadily. “He witnessed Lord Voldemort’s rebirth. I will explain it all to you if you will step up to my office.”

“I am afraid I cannot permit you to question Harry tonight.” Fudge’s curious smile lingers.

“You are — er — prepared to take Harry’s word on this, are you, Dumbledore?” Fudge says. There is a moment’s silence, which is broken by Sirius growling. His hackles are raised, and he is baring his teeth at Fudge.

“Certainly, I believe Harry,” says Dumbledore. His eyes are blazing now. “I heard Crouch’s confession, and I heard Harry’s account of what happened after he touched the Triwizard Cup; the two stories make sense, they explain everything that has happened since Bertha Jorkins disappeared last summer.”

Fudge still has that strange smile on his face. “You are prepared to believe that Lord Voldemort has returned, on the word of a lunatic murderer, and a boy who . . . well . . .”

Fudge shoots Harry another look. “You’ve been reading Rita Skeeter, Mr. Fudge,” Harry says quietly. The rest of us jump not realizing that Harry had been awake for this conversation.

Fudge reddens slightly, but a defiant and obstinate look comes over his face. “And if I have?” he says, looking at Dumbledore. “If I have discovered that you’ve been keeping certain facts about the boy very quiet? A Parselmouth, eh? And having funny turns all over the place —”

“I assume that you are referring to the pains Harry has been experiencing in his scar?” says Dumbledore coolly.

“You admit that he has been having these pains, then?” says Fudge quickly.  “Headaches? Nightmares? Possibly — hallucinations?”

“Listen to me, Cornelius,” says Dumbledore, taking a step toward Fudge. “Harry is as sane as you or I. That scar upon his forehead has not addled his brains. I believe it hurts him when Lord Voldemort is close by, or feeling particularly murderous.”

Fudge has taken half a step back from Dumbledore, but he looks no less stubborn.

“You’ll forgive me, Dumbledore, but I’ve never heard of a curse scar acting as an alarm bell before. . . .”

“Look, I saw Voldemort come back!” Harry shouts. He tries to get out of bed again, but Mrs. Weasley forces him back. “I saw the Death Eaters! I can give you their names! Lucius Malfoy —”

Snape makes a sudden movement, but as Harry looks at him, Snape’s eyes fly back to Fudge.

“Malfoy was cleared!” says Fudge, visibly affronted. “A very old family — donations to excellent causes —”

“Macnair!” Harry continues.

“Also cleared! Now working for the Ministry!”

“Avery — Nott — Crabbe — Goyle —”

“You are merely repeating the names of those who were acquitted of being Death Eaters thirteen years ago!” says Fudge angrily. “You could have found those names in old reports of the trials! For heaven’s sake, Dumbledore — the boy was full of some crackpot story at the end of last year too — his tales are getting taller, and you’re still swallowing them — the boy can talk to snakes, Dumbledore, and you still think he’s trustworthy?”

“You fool!” Professor McGonagall cries. “Cedric Diggory! Mr. Crouch! These deaths were not the random work of a lunatic!”

“I see no evidence to the contrary!” shouts Fudge, now matching her anger, his face purpling. “It seems to me that you are all determined to start a panic that will destabilize everything we have worked for these last thirteen years!”

“Voldemort has returned,” Dumbledore repeats. “If you accept that fact straightaway, Fudge, and take the necessary measures, we may still be able to save the situation. The first and most essential step is to remove Azkaban from the control of the dementors —”

“Preposterous!” shouts Fudge again. “Remove the dementors? I’d be kicked out of office for suggesting it! Half of us only feel safe in our beds at night because we know the dementors are standing guard at Azkaban!”

“The rest of us sleep less soundly in our beds, Cornelius, knowing that you have put Lord Voldemort’s most dangerous supporters in the care of creatures who will join him the instant he asks them!” says Dumbledore. “They will not remain loyal to you, Fudge! Voldemort can offer them much more scope for their powers and their pleasures than you can! With the dementors behind him, and his old supporters returned to him, you will be hard-pressed to stop him regaining the sort of power he had thirteen years ago!”

The shaking in my body has reached and all time high, and Ariana is making soft shushing noises, while rubbing my arm. I can’t help but feel lost and set adrift. I’m supposed to be helping her, yet here she is back to helping me, and my crippling fear of the monster and his supporters who ruined my life.

Fudge is opening and closing his mouth as though no words can express his outrage.

“The second step you must take — and at once,” Dumbledore presses on, “is to send envoys to the giants.”

“Envoys to the giants?” Fudge shrieks, finding his tongue again. “What madness is this?”

“Extend them the hand of friendship, now, before it is too late,” says Dumbledore, “or Voldemort will persuade them, as he did before, that he alone among wizards will give them their rights and their freedom!”

“You — you cannot be serious!” Fudge gasps, shaking his head and retreating further from Dumbledore. “If the magical community got wind that I had approached the giants — people hate them, Dumbledore — end of my career —”

“Career is the only thing he can think of.” Ariana mutters darkly next to me, while tightening her grip.

“You are blinded,” says Dumbledore, his voice rising now, the aura of power around him palpable, his eyes blazing once more, “by the love of the office you hold, Cornelius! You place too much importance, and you always have done, on the so-called purity of blood! You fail to recognize that it matters not what someone is born, but what they grow to be! Your dementor has just destroyed the last remaining member of a pure-blood family as old as any — and see what that man chose to make of his life! I tell you now — take the steps I have suggested, and you will be remembered, in office or out, as one of the bravest and greatest Ministers of Magic we have ever known. Fail to act — and history will remember you as the man who stepped aside and allowed Voldemort a second chance to destroy the world we have tried to rebuild!”

“Insane,” whispers Fudge, still backing away. “Mad . . .”

And then there is silence. Madam Pomfrey is standing frozen at the foot of Harry’s bed, her hands over her mouth. Mrs. Weasley is still standing over Harry, her hand on his shoulder to prevent him from rising. The rest of us are staring at Fudge.

“If your determination to shut your eyes will carry you as far as this, Cornelius,” says Dumbledore, “we have reached a parting of the ways. You must act as you see fit. And I — I shall act as I see fit.”

Dumbledore’s voice carries no hint of a threat; it sounds like a mere statement, but Fudge bristles as though Dumbledore is advancing upon him with a wand.

“This is not going to end well.” Ariana breathes, and I cast a quick glance her way, but I see that her eyes are frozen in place on her grandfather and Fudge.

“Now, see here, Dumbledore,” he says, waving a threatening finger. “I’ve given you free rein, always. I’ve had a lot of respect for you. I might not have agreed with some of your decisions, but I’ve kept quiet. There aren’t many who’d have let you hire werewolves, or keep Hagrid, or decide what to teach your students without reference to the Ministry. But if you’re going to work against me —”

“The only one against whom I intend to work,” says Dumbledore, “is Lord Voldemort. If you are against him, then we remain, Cornelius, on the same side.”

It seems Fudge can think of no answer to this. He rocks backward and forward on his small feet for a moment and spins his bowler hat in his hands. Finally, he says, with a hint of a plea in his voice, “He can’t be back, Dumbledore, he just can’t be . . .”

Snape strides forward, past Dumbledore, pulling up the left sleeve of his robes as he goes. He sticks out his forearm and shows it to Fudge, who recoils.

“There,” says Snape harshly. “There. The Dark Mark. It is not as clear as it was an hour or so ago, when it burned black, but you can still see it. Every Death Eater had the sign burned into him by the Dark Lord. It was a means of distinguishing one another, and his means of summoning us to him. When he touched the Mark of any Death Eater, we were to Disapparate, and Apparate, instantly, at his side. This Mark has been growing clearer all year. Karkaroff’s too. Why do you think Karkaroff fled tonight? We both felt the Mark burn. We both knew he had returned. Karkaroff fears the Dark Lord’s vengeance. He betrayed too many of his fellow Death Eaters to be sure of a welcome back into the fold.”

I suck in a breath of air at seeing so plainly the fact that Snape was a Death Eater. Was he one of the ones at my house with Augustus as he killed my parents? Or was he with Dumbledore at that time already?

Fudge steps back from Snape too. He is shaking his head. He does not seem to have taken in a word Snape said. He stares, apparently repelled by the ugly mark on Snape’s arm, then looks up at Dumbledore and whispers, “I don’t know what you and your staff are playing at, Dumbledore, but I have heard enough. I have no more to add. I will be in touch with you tomorrow, Dumbledore, to discuss the running of this school. I must return to the Ministry.”

He almost reaches the door when he pauses. He turns around, strides back down the dormitory, and stops at Harry’s bed.

“Your winnings,” he says shortly, taking a large bag of gold out of his pocket and dropping it onto Harry’s bedside table. “One thousand Galleons. There should have been a presentation ceremony, but under the circumstances . . .”

He crams his bowler hat onto his head and walks out of the room, slamming the door behind him. The moment he has disappeared, Dumbledore turns to look at the group around Harry’s bed, and the hospital wing in general. Ariana doesn’t bother pulling away from her position snuggled up against me.

“There is work to be done,” he says. “Molly . . . am I right in thinking that I can count on you and Arthur?”

“Of course you can,” says Mrs. Weasley. She is white to the lips, but she looks resolute. “We know what Fudge is. It’s Arthur’s fondness for Muggles that has held him back at the Ministry all these years. Fudge thinks he lacks proper Wizarding pride.”

“Then I need to send a message to Arthur,” says Dumbledore. “All those that we can persuade of the truth must be notified immediately, and he is well placed to contact those at the Ministry who are not as shortsighted as Cornelius.”

“I’ll go to Dad,” says Bill, standing up. “I’ll go now.”

“Excellent,” says Dumbledore. “Tell him what has happened. Tell him I will be in direct contact with him shortly. He will need to be discreet, however. If Fudge thinks I am interfering at the Ministry —”

“Leave it to me,” says Bill. He claps a hand on Harry’s shoulder, kisses his mother on the cheek, pulls on his cloak, and strides quickly from the room.

“Minerva,” says Dumbledore, turning to Professor McGonagall, “I want to see Hagrid in my office as soon as possible. Also — if she will consent to come — Madame Maxime.”

Professor McGonagall nods and leaves without a word.

“Poppy,” Dumbledore says to Madam Pomfrey, “would you be very kind and go down to Professor Moody’s office, where I think you will find a house-elf called Winky in considerable distress? Do what you can for her, and take her back to the kitchens. I think Dobby will look after her for us.”

“Very — very well,” says Madam Pomfrey, looking startled, and she too leaves.

Dumbledore makes sure that the door is closed, and that Madam Pomfrey’s footsteps have died away, before he speaks again.

“And now,” he says, “it is time for two of our number to recognize each other for what they are. Sirius . . . if you could resume your usual form.”

The great black dog looks up at Dumbledore, then, in an instant, turns back into a man. Mrs. Weasley screams and leaps back from the bed.

“Sirius Black!” she shrieks, pointing at him.

“Mum, shut up!” Ron yells. “It’s okay!”

Snape did not yell or jump backward, but the look on his face is one of mingled fury and horror.

“Him!” he snarls, staring at Sirius, whose face shows equal dislike. “What is he doing here?”

“He is here at my invitation,” says Dumbledore, looking between them, “as are you, Severus. I trust you both. It is time for you to lay aside your old differences and trust each other.”

I think Dumbledore is asking for a near miracle. Sirius and Snape are eyeing each other with the utmost loathing.

“I will settle, in the short term,” says Dumbledore, with a bite of impatience in his voice, “for a lack of open hostility. You will shake hands. You are on the same side now. Time is short, and unless the few of us who know the truth stand united, there is no hope for any of us.”

Very slowly — but still glaring at each other as though each wishes the other nothing but ill — Sirius and Snape move towards each other and shake hands. They let go extremely quickly.

“That will do to be going on with,” says Dumbledore, stepping between them once more. “Now I have work for each of you. Fudge’s attitude, though not unexpected, changes everything. Sirius, I need you to set off at once. You are to alert Remus Lupin, Arabella Figg, Mundungus Fletcher — the old crowd. Lie low at Lupin’s for a while; I will contact you there.”

“But —” says Harry.

“You’ll see me very soon, Harry,” says Sirius, turning to him. “I promise you. But I must do what I can, you understand, don’t you?”

“Yeah,” says Harry. “Yeah . . . of course I do.” Sirius grasps his hand briefly, nods to Dumbledore, transforms again into the black dog, and runs the length of the room to the door, whose handle he turns with a paw. Then he is gone.

“Severus,” says Dumbledore, turning to Snape, “you know what I must ask you to do. If you are ready . . . if you are prepared . . .”

“I am,” says Snape. He looks slightly paler than usual, and his cold, black eyes glitter strangely.

“Then good luck,” says Dumbledore, and he watches, with a trace of apprehension on his face, as Snape sweeps wordlessly after Sirius.

It is several minutes before Dumbledore speaks again. “I must go downstairs,” he says finally. “I must see the Diggorys. Harry — take the rest of your potion. I will see all of you later.”

Harry slumps back against his pillows as Dumbledore disappears. Everyone seems to be looking at Harry now. None of us speak for a very long time.

“You’ve got to take the rest of your potion, Harry,” Mrs. Weasley says at last. Her hand nudges the sack of gold on his bedside cabinet as she reached for the bottle and the goblet. “You have a good long sleep. Try and think about something else for a while . . . think about what you’re going to buy with your winnings!”

“I don’t want that gold,” says Harry in an expressionless voice. “You have it. Anyone can have it. I shouldn’t have won it. It should’ve been Cedric’s.”

That somber thought sucks all the lightheartedness out of the room. I glance quickly at Ariana to see that’s she’s spaced out yet again at the mention of Cedric’s name. I have a feeling that even though this chapter of our year at school is soon to be over, that everything is now changing as well.

It’s too bad that things can’t change for the better.


	29. The Beginning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything you recognize is J.K. Rowling's. Except Jamie, Luka, and Ariana.

Chapter 29- The Beginning

 

The next few days after the end of the tournament where honestly some of the worst that I’ve experienced at the castle. Everyone was in a deep state of mourning, and confusion was still running rampant. Harry had attempted to give the winnings that he got from the Tri-Wizard Tournament to Cedric’s parents, but all Cedric’s mum did, was turn the offer away.

She had said that Cedric would have wanted Harry to have the winnings, since he won it fairly. That didn’t help Harry out much though. Everyone in the castle was giving him a pretty big berth. Most people are skirting him in the corridors, avoiding his eyes. Some whisper behind their hands as he passes.

The main thing that has been on our minds though, was the information that Voldemort is back, and that the Ministry is going to cover it up. The general consensus between Ron, Harry, Hermione, and me is that we’re not going to mention it to others, until we hear more news from the outside.

The only time we touch upon the subject is when Ron tells Harry about a meeting Mrs. Weasley had with Dumbledore before going home.

“She went to ask him if you could come straight to us this summer,” he says. “But he wants you to go back to the Dursleys, at least at first.”

“Why?” says Harry.

“She said Dumbledore’s got his reasons,” says Ron, shaking his head darkly. “I suppose we’ve got to trust him, haven’t we?”

“Still rather crummy. At least you won’t have to share a room with Ron and Luka any longer then you have to. I swear that those two fight more than cats and owls.” I comment stretching. Ron glares at me.

“You and Ginny have your moments too you know Jame.” Ron spits back. I only arch and eyebrow in response, he just signed his own death sentence.

Of course one of the only other people that Harry felt comfortable talking about all of this was with Hagrid.

As there is no longer a Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, we have those lessons free. We use the one on Thursday afternoon to go down and visit Hagrid in his cabin. It is a bright and sunny day; Fang bounds out of the open door as we approach, barking and wagging his tail madly.

“Who’s that?” calls Hagrid, coming to the door. “Harry!” He strides out to meet us, pulls Harry into a one-armed hug, ruffles his hair, and says, “Good ter see yeh, mate. Good ter see yeh.”

We see two bucket-size cups and saucers on the wooden table in front of the fireplace when we enter Hagrid’s cabin.

“Bin havin’ a cuppa with Olympe,” Hagrid says. “She’s jus’ left.”

“Who?” asks Ron curiously.

“Madame Maxime, o’ course!” says Hagrid.

“You two made up, have you?” snickers Ron.

“Dunno what yeh’re talkin’ about,” says Hagrid airily, fetching more cups from the dresser. When he has made tea and offered around a plate of doughy cookies, he leans back in his chair and surveys Harry closely through his beetle-black eyes.

“You all righ’?” he says gruffly.

“Yeah,” says Harry. I don’t actually believe him for a second, since everyone has changed after Cedric’s death. I try not to think about the hard glint that now resides in Ariana’s eyes.

“No, yeh’re not,” says Hagrid. “’Course yeh’re not. But yeh will be.” Harry says nothing.

“Knew he was goin’ ter come back,” says Hagrid, and Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I look up at him, shocked. “Known it fer years, Harry. Knew he was out there, bidin’ his time. It had ter happen. Well, now it has, an’ we’ll jus’ have ter get on with it. We’ll fight. Migh’ be able ter stop him before he gets a good hold. That’s Dumbledore’s plan, anyway. Great man, Dumbledore. ’S long as we’ve got him, I’m not too worried.”

Well it would have been nice if someone had shared all this information with us a while ago. Hagrid raises his bushy eyebrows at the disbelieving expressions on our faces.

“No good sittin’ worryin’ abou’ it,” he says. “What’s comin’ will come, an’ we’ll meet it when it does. Dumbledore told me wha’ you did, Harry.” Hagrid’s chest swells as he looks at Harry.

“Yeh did as much as yer father would’ve done, an’ I can’ give yeh no higher praise than that.”

Harry smiles back at him. It is the first time he’s smiled in days. “What’s Dumbledore asked you to do, Hagrid?” he asks. “He sent Professor McGonagall to ask you and Madame Maxime to meet him — that night.”

“Got a little job fer me over the summer,” says Hagrid. “Secret, though. I’m not s’pposed ter talk abou’ it, no, not even ter you lot. Olympe — Madame Maxime ter you — might be comin’ with me. I think she will. Think I got her persuaded.”

“Is it to do with Voldemort?” I ask cautiously, trying to keep my hands from shaking, for that’s what they want to do.

Hagrid flinches at the sound of the name.

“Migh’ be,” he says evasively. “Now . . . who’d like ter come an’ visit the las’ skrewt with me? I was jokin’ — jokin’!” he adds hastily, seeing the looks on our faces.

* * *

 

Usually I feel a pang of sadness when I’m packing up my trunk to leave for the summer, but this year, closing the last bolt on the steamer isn’t as hard as previous years. It might be that I actually am looking forward to seeing Mr. and Mrs. Weasley when I get out. Mrs. Weasley had hugged me so hard when she had left school a month ago, that I feared she cracked a rib or two.

No longer would Luka and I be going back to an empty house. Now we’ll be in one full to bursting with people, laughter, and love. It was definitely a nice warm feeling to have in my chest, now that there’s uncertainty around every corner, and the world is nose-diving into chaos again.

Harry rightfully so isn’t looking forward to going back to the Dursleys. At least he won’t have to spend the whole summer there though. The other thing that he’s been sulking about the most is the Leaving Feast. Usually it’s a grand time, but we all have a feeling that it’s going to be more of a solemn affair.

“You ready?” Hermione asks me, appearing at the side of my bed. I look up at her and nod my head silently. When we turn to leave, I catch sight of Ginny hanging by our doorway.

“Come on then, we can do this together.” I state, trying to inject some sort of levity into my voice.

When we meet up with Harry and Ron in the common room, the five of us walk silently down to the Great Hall. When we arrive I immediately notice that all of the usual decorations are missing. The Great Hall is normally decorated with the winning House’s colors for the Leaving Feast. Tonight, however, there are black drapes on the wall behind the teachers’ table. I know instantly that they are there as a mark of respect to Cedric.

The real Mad-Eye Moody is at the staff table now, his wooden leg and his magical eye back in place. He is extremely twitchy, jumping every time someone speaks to him. I can’t blame him; Moody’s fear of attack is bound to be increased by his ten-month imprisonment in his own trunk. Professor Karkaroff’s chair is empty. I wonder, as we sat down with the other Gryffindors, where Karkaroff is now, and whether Voldemort has caught up with him.

Madame Maxime is still there. She is sitting next to Hagrid. They are talking quietly together. Further along the table, sitting next to Professor McGonagall, is Snape. His eyes linger on Harry for a moment as Harry looks at him. His expression is difficult to read. He looks as sour and unpleasant as ever. I glance around looking for the two faces that matter to me most in all the other houses.

I catch Luka’s solemn face as he stares at the plate in front of him; his brow is furrowed like he’s trying to figure out the answer to an extremely hard problem. I swivel my gaze to the Hufflepuff table and manage to just see Ariana as her friends surround her. Her eyes are rimmed in red like she had been crying again, but there was something different about her in her posture. She sat a little more rigidly, and a steely glint in her eye caught my attention.

I think its safe to say that Cedric Diggory’s death has changed her, whether its for the better or the worse I do not know.

My musings are ended by Professor Dumbledore, who stands up at the staff table. The Great Hall, which in any case has been less noisy than it usually is at the Leaving Feast, becomes very quiet.

“The end,” says Dumbledore, looking around at us all, “of another year.”

He pauses, and his eyes fall upon the Hufflepuff table. Theirs has been the most subdued table before he got to his feet, and theirs is still the saddest and palest faces in the Hall.

“There is much that I would like to say to you all tonight,” says Dumbledore, “but I must first acknowledge the loss of a very fine person, who should be sitting here,” he gestures towards the Hufflepuffs, “enjoying our feast with us. I would like you all, please, to stand, and raise your glasses, to Cedric Diggory.”

I catch a glimpse of Cho Chang through the crowd. There are tears pouring silently down her face. I turn my attention back on Dumbledore after we all sit back down. I feel Ginny worm her hand into mine, needing the comfort of the emotional scene we just went through. I squeeze her hand extra tight in mine, to let her know that she’s not alone.

“Cedric was a person who exemplified many of the qualities that distinguish Hufflepuff House,” Dumbledore continues. “He was a good and loyal friend, a hard worker, he valued fair play. His death has affected you all, whether you knew him well or not. I think that you have the right, therefore, to know exactly how it came about.”

I raise my head and stare at Dumbledore. Is he actually going to do this?

“Cedric Diggory was murdered by Lord Voldemort.”

A panicked whisper sweeps the Great Hall. People are staring at Dumbledore in disbelief, in horror. He looks perfectly calm as he watches them mutter themselves into silence.

“The Ministry of Magic,” Dumbledore continues, “does not wish me to tell you this. It is possible that some of your parents will be horrified that I have done so — either because they will not believe that Lord Voldemort has returned, or because they think I should not tell you so, young as you are. It is my belief, however, that the truth is generally preferable to lies, and that any attempt to pretend that Cedric died as the result of an accident, or some sort of blunder of his own, is an insult to his memory.”

Stunned and frightened, every face in the Hall is turned towards Dumbledore now . . . or almost every face. Over at the Slytherin table, I see Draco Malfoy muttering something to Crabbe and Goyle. I feel a hot, sick swoop of anger in my stomach. I forced myself to turn my attention back to Dumbledore, and focus on my breathing exercises.

I don’t think that Ariana is prepared to be dealing with another one of my magical rage bursts now, truthfully I’m not ready to either.

“There is somebody else who must be mentioned in connection with Cedric’s death,” Dumbledore goes on. “I am talking, of course, about Harry Potter.”

A kind of ripple crosses the Great Hall as a few heads turn in Harry’s direction before flicking back to face Dumbledore.

“Harry Potter managed to escape Lord Voldemort,” says Dumbledore. “He risked his own life to return Cedric’s body to Hogwarts. He showed, in every respect, the sort of bravery that few wizards have ever shown in facing Lord Voldemort, and for this, I honor him.”

Dumbledore turns gravely to Harry and raises his goblet once more. Nearly everyone in the Great Hall follows suit. They murmur his name, as they had murmured Cedric’s, and drink to him. But through a gap in the standing figures, I see that Malfoy, Crabbe, Goyle, and many of the other Slytherins have remained defiantly in their seats, their goblets untouched. Dumbledore, who after all possesses no magical eye, does not see them.

When everyone has once again resumed their seats, Dumbledore continues, “The Triwizard Tournament’s aim was to further and promote magical understanding. In the light of what has happened — of Lord Voldemort’s return — such ties are more important than ever before.”

Dumbledore looked from Madame Maxime and Hagrid, to Fleur Delacour and her fellow Beauxbatons students, to Viktor Krum and the Durmstrangs at the Slytherin table. Krum, I see, looks wary, almost frightened, as though he expects Dumbledore to say something harsh.

“Every guest in this Hall,” says Dumbledore, and his eyes linger upon the Durmstrang students, “will be welcomed back here at any time, should they wish to come. I say to you all, once again — in the light of Lord Voldemort’s return, we are only as strong as we are united, as weak as we are divided. Lord Voldemort’s gift for spreading discord and enmity is very great. We can fight it only by showing an equally strong bond of friendship and trust. Differences of habit and language are nothing at all if our aims are identical and our hearts are open.”

“It is my belief — and never have I so hoped that I am mistaken — that we are all facing dark and difficult times. Some of you in this Hall have already suffered directly at the hands of Lord Voldemort. Many of your families have been torn asunder. A week ago, a student was taken from our midst.”

“Remember Cedric. Remember, if the time should come when you have to make a choice between what is right and what is easy, remember what happened to a boy who was good, and kind, and brave, because he strayed across the path of Lord Voldemort. Remember Cedric Diggory.”

I nod my head solemnly, adding his name to a growing list of people that I will remember to fight for in my mind. The sad part is that it only seems to be growing. 

* * *

 

My trunk is packed, and Dionysus hoots softly at Hedwig from his cage atop my trunk. Hedwig is sitting in her cage atop Harry’s trunk as well, and I can’t help but think that they’re telling each other something meaningful. Harry, Hermione, Ron, and I are standing around with all the other fourth years in the Entrance Hall waiting for our turn to use the magical carriages to take us down to Hogsmeade Station.

It is a beautiful summer’s day out, and part of me can’t wait to get back out into the countryside at the Burrow and run around for a while. Our quiet conversations are interrupted by the sudden appearance of Fleur Delacour.

“’Arry!”

He looks around. Fleur Delacour is hurrying up the stone steps into the castle. Beyond her, far across the grounds, I can see Hagrid helping Madame Maxime to back two of the giant horses into their harness. The Beauxbatons carriage is about to take off.

“We will see each uzzer again, I ’ope,” says Fleur as she reaches him, holding out her hand. “I am ’oping to get a job ’ere, to improve my Eenglish.”

“It’s very good already,” says Ron in a strangled sort of voice. Fleur smiles at him; Hermione scowls. I can’t help but snicker over the whole situation. I now have even more ammo to use in making fun of Ron over the summer!

“Good-bye, ’Arry,” says Fleur, turning to go. “It ’az been a pleasure meeting you!”

“Wonder how the Durmstrang students are getting back,” says Ron. “D’you reckon they can steer that ship without Karkaroff?”

“Karkaroff did not steer,” says a gruff voice. “He stayed in his cabin and let us do the vork.” Krum has come to say good-bye to Hermione.

“Could I have a vord?” he asks her.

“Oh . . . yes . . . all right,” says Hermione, looking slightly flustered, and following Krum through the crowd and out of sight. Wow teen love is in the air. I can’t believe that this year has so much of it, and that my friends all got hit with it so hard.

“You’d better hurry up!” Ron calls loudly after her. “The carriages’ll be here in a minute!”

He lets Harry and me keep a watch for the carriages, however, and spends the next few minutes craning his neck over the crowd to try and see what Krum and Hermione might be up to. They return quite soon. Ron stares at Hermione, but her face is quite impassive. This day just keeps getting better on the Ron front.

“I liked Diggory,” says Krum abruptly to Harry. “He vos alvays polite to me. Alvays. Even though I vos from Durmstrang — with Karkaroff,” he adds, scowling.

“Have you got a new headmaster yet?” I ask him. Krum shrugs. He holds out his hand as Fleur did, shakes Harry’s hand, and then Ron’s. Ron looks as though he is suffering some sort of painful internal struggle. Krum is already walking away when Ron bursts out, “Can I have your autograph?”

Hermione turns away, smiling at the horseless carriages that are now trundling towards us up the drive, as Krum, looking surprised but gratified, signs a fragment of parchment for Ron. I don’t even bother turning away, as I break out into howling laughter, which later Ron smacks me for. Oh I have a feeling this summer will be priceless.

* * *

 

The weather could not have been more different on the journey back to King’s Cross than it was on our way to Hogwarts the previous September. There isn’t a single cloud in the sky. Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I managed to get a compartment to ourselves. Pigwidgeon is once again hidden under Ron’s dress robes to stop him from hooting continually; Hedwig is dozing, her head under her wing with Di next to her, and Crookshanks is curled up in a spare seat like a large, furry ginger cushion.  Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I talk more fully and freely than we have all week as the train speeds us southward. I have a feeling that Dumbledore’s speech is what made the difference. It is less painful to discuss what happened now. We brake off our conversation about what action Dumbledore might be taking, even now, to stop Voldemort only when the lunch trolley arrives.

When Hermione returns from the trolley and puts her money back into her schoolbag, she dislodges a copy of the Daily Prophet that she has been carrying in there. Harry looks at it, unsure whether he really wants to know what it might say, but Hermione, seeing him looking at it, says calmly, “There’s nothing in there. You can look for yourself, but there’s nothing at all. I’ve been checking every day. Just a small piece the day after the third task saying you won the tournament. They didn’t even mention Cedric. Nothing about any of it. If you ask me, Fudge is forcing them to keep quiet.”

“He’ll never keep Rita quiet,” says Harry. “Not on a story like this.”

“She’s been oddly quiet though.” I mention popping a Bertie Botts Every Flavored Bean into my mouth.

“Oh, Rita hasn’t written anything at all since the third task,” says Hermione in an oddly constrained voice. “As a matter of fact,” she adds, her voice now trembling slightly, “Rita Skeeter isn’t going to be writing anything at all for a while. Not unless she wants me to spill the beans on her.”

Wait a minute… is this what Mione’s been hiding from me? She’s had this big secret for the past few weeks, and its been driving me insane trying to figure out what it is when she won’t just tell me.

“What are you talking about?” says Ron.

“I found out how she was listening in on private conversations when she wasn’t supposed to be coming onto the grounds,” says Hermione in a rush. I get the impression that Hermione has been dying to tell us this for days, but that she has restrained herself in light of everything else that has happened.

“How was she doing it?” asks Harry at once.

“How did you find out?” demands Ron, staring at her. I just lean back in my seat and wait for my best friend to explain herself.

“Well, it was you, really, who gave me the idea, Harry,” she says.

“Did I?” says Harry, perplexed. “How?”

“Bugging,” says Hermione happily.

“But you said they didn’t work —”

“Oh not electronic bugs,” says Hermione. “No, you see . . . Rita Skeeter” — Hermione’s voice trembles with quiet triumph — “is an unregistered Animagus. She can turn —”

Oh hell no! Merlin’s saggy pants! Hermione pulls a small sealed glass jar out of her bag.

“— into a beetle.” I resist to empty the contents of my stomach. Of course she would turn into a bug. Who on earth wouldn’t want to turn into something small, gross, and skittery?

“You’re kidding,” says Ron. “You haven’t . . . she’s not . . .”

“Oh yes she is,” says Hermione happily, brandishing the jar at us. Inside are a few twigs and leaves and one large, fat beetle.

“That’s never — you’re kidding —” Ron whispers, lifting the jar to his eyes.

“No, I’m not,” says Hermione, beaming. “I caught her on the windowsill in the hospital wing. Look very closely, and you’ll notice the markings around her antennae are exactly like those foul glasses she wears.”

“Well I can say that this form of her is a right sight better than the other.” I say with a grin. Hermione gives me a scandalized look for a second before smiling along with the boys’ laughter.

“There was a beetle on the statue the night we heard Hagrid telling Madame Maxime about his mum!” Harry cries

“Exactly,” says Hermione. “And Viktor pulled a beetle out of my hair after we’d had our conversation by the lake. And unless I’m very much mistaken, Rita was perched on the windowsill of the Divination class the day your scar hurt. She’s been buzzing around for stories all year.”

“When we saw Malfoy under that tree . . .” says Ron slowly.

“He was talking to her, in his hand,” says Hermione. “He knew, of course. That’s how she’s been getting all those nice little interviews with the Slytherins. They wouldn’t care that she was doing something illegal, as long as they were giving her horrible stuff about us and Hagrid.”

“All the more reason to make it so that Malfoy has to suffer for his words.” I mumble darkly under my breath, trying to get my sudden anger under control.

Hermione takes the glass jar back from Ron and smiles at the beetle, which buzzes angrily against the glass.

“I’ve told her I’ll let her out when we get back to London,” says Hermione. “I’ve put an Unbreakable Charm on the jar, you see, so she can’t transform. And I’ve told her she’s to keep her quill to herself for a whole year. See if she can’t break the habit of writing horrible lies about people.”

Smiling serenely, Hermione places the beetle back inside her schoolbag. The door of the compartment slides open.

“Very clever, Granger,” says Draco Malfoy. Oh no this isn’t going to end well, I can just tell. Already my hands are clenching into fists at the sight of him.

Crabbe and Goyle are standing behind him. All three of them look more pleased with themselves, more arrogant and more menacing, than I have ever seen them.

“So,” says Malfoy slowly, advancing slightly into the compartment and looking slowly around at them, a smirk quivering on his lips. “You caught some pathetic reporter, and Potter’s Dumbledore’s favorite boy again. Big deal.”

His smirk widens. Crabbe and Goyle leer.

“Trying not to think about it, are we?” says Malfoy softly, looking around at all four of us. “Trying to pretend it hasn’t happened?”

“Get out,” I say through gritted teeth.

“You’ve picked the losing side, Potter! I warned you! I told you you ought to choose your company more carefully, remember? When we met on the train, first day at Hogwarts? I told you not to hang around with riffraff like this!” He jerks his head at Ron and Hermione, glancing at me. “Too late now, Potter! They’ll be the first to go, now the Dark Lord’s back! Mudbloods and Muggle-lovers first, then the Blood Traitors! Well — second — Diggory was the f —”

It was as though someone exploded a box of fireworks within the compartment. Blinded by the blaze of the spells that blasts from every direction, deafened by a series of bangs, I blink and look down at the floor.

Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle are all lying unconscious in the doorway. Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I are on our feet, all four of us having used a different hex. Nor are we the only ones to have done so.

“Thought we’d see what those three were up to,” says Fred matter-of-factly, stepping onto Goyle and into the compartment. He has his wand out, and so does George, who is careful to tread on Malfoy as he follows Fred inside. Stepping in last is none other than Ariana Dumbledore with a satisfied, fiery gleam in her eyes.

“Interesting effect,” says George, looking down at Crabbe. “Who used the Furnunculus Curse?”

“Me,” says Harry.

“Odd,” says George lightly. “I used Jelly-Legs. Looks as though those two shouldn’t be mixed. He seems to have sprouted little tentacles all over his face. Well, let’s not leave them here, they don’t add much to the decor.” I smirk slightly at that, as Ariana slips onto the seat beside me.

“For once Pendragon, I’m glad that you can’t seem to keep yourself out of trouble. I’ve been itching to give Malfoy a good hexing for a long time now.” She says with a victorious grin. I cock an eyebrow at that, for I can’t remember a time when Ariana was happier with violence than a peaceful option.

“Come now, don’t give me that look. I am Queen when it comes to dishing out vengeance. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten already.” She teases. I smile, glad to see that Ariana’s slowly getting back to the same person that she was before.

Ron, Harry, and George kick, roll, and push the unconscious Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle — each of whom look distinctly the worse for the jumble of jinxes with which they have been hit — out into the corridor, then come back into the compartment and roll the door shut.

“Exploding Snap, anyone?” says Fred, pulling out a pack of cards. We are halfway through our fifth game when Harry decides to ask them.

“You going to tell us, then?” he says to George. “Who you were blackmailing?”

“Oh,” says George darkly. “That.”

“It doesn’t matter,” says Fred, shaking his head impatiently. “It wasn’t anything important. Not now, anyway.”

“We’ve given up,” says George, shrugging.

But Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I keep on asking, and finally, Fred says, “All right, all right, if you really want to know . . . it was Ludo Bagman.”

“Bagman?” says Harry sharply. “Are you saying he was involved in —”

“Nah,” says George gloomily. “Nothing like that. Stupid git. He wouldn’t have the brains.”

“Well, what, then?” asks Ron.

Fred hesitated, then says, “You remember that bet we had with him at the Quidditch World Cup? About how Ireland would win, but Krum would get the Snitch?”

“Yeah,” says Harry, Ron, and I slowly.

“Well, the git paid us in leprechaun gold he’d caught from the Irish mascots.” I wince at hearing that.

“So?”

“So,” says Fred impatiently, “it vanished, didn’t it? By next morning, it had gone!”

“But — it must’ve been an accident, mustn’t it?” says Hermione.

George laughs very bitterly. “Yeah, that’s what we thought, at first. We thought if we just wrote to him, and told him he’d made a mistake, he’d cough up. But nothing doing. Ignored our letter. We kept trying to talk to him about it at Hogwarts, but he was always making some excuse to get away from us.”

“In the end, he turned pretty nasty,” says Fred. “Told us we were too young to gamble, and he wasn’t giving us anything.”

“So we asked for our money back,” says George, glowering.

“He didn’t refuse!” gasps Hermione.

“Right in one,” replies Fred.

“But that was all your savings!” I cry devastated for the twins on their behalf, and the fact that I had leant them some of the money as well.

“Tell me about it,” says George. “’Course, we found out what was going on in the end. Lee Jordan’s dad had had a bit of trouble getting money off Bagman as well. Turns out he’s in big trouble with the goblins. Borrowed loads of gold off them. A gang of them cornered him in the woods after the World Cup and took all the gold he had, and it still wasn’t enough to cover all his debts. They followed him all the way to Hogwarts to keep an eye on him. He’s lost everything gambling. Hasn’t got two Galleons to rub together. And you know how the idiot tried to pay the goblins back?”

“How?” says Harry. I’m not so sure that I’m going to like the answer to this.

“He put a bet on you, mate,” says Fred. “Put a big bet on you to win the tournament. Bet against the goblins.”

“So that’s why he kept trying to help me win!” says Harry. “Well — I did win, didn’t I? So he can pay you your gold!”

“Nope,” says George, shaking his head. “The goblins play as dirty as him. They say you drew with Diggory, and Bagman was betting you’d win outright. So Bagman had to run for it. He did run for it right after the third task.”

George sighs deeply and starts dealing out the cards again. The rest of the journey passes pleasantly enough. Everyone is able to relax until we pull into King’s Cross Station, and I can tell by the look on Harry’s face that he’s not looking forward to going back to stay with the Dursley’s. I wouldn’t either if I was him.

As everyone in our compartment struggles with their trunks, and getting past the still knocked out idiots in the corner Harry stops Fred and George, and I hang back as well.

“Fred — George — wait a moment.” The twins turn. Harry pulls open his trunk and draws out his Triwizard winnings.

“Take it,” he says, and he thrusts the sack into George’s hands.

“What?” says Fred, looking flabbergasted. I break into a huge smile while looking at Harry. I knew there was a reason why I stuck around Boy Wonder!

“Take it,” Harry repeats firmly. “I don’t want it.”

“You’re mental,” says George, trying to push it back at Harry.

“No, I’m not,” says Harry. “You take it, and get inventing. It’s for the joke shop.”

“He is mental,” Fred says in an almost awed voice.

“Listen,” says Harry firmly. “If you don’t take it, I’m throwing it down the drain. I don’t want it and I don’t need it. But I could do with a few laughs. We could all do with a few laughs. I’ve got a feeling we’re going to need them more than usual before long.”

“Besides, with the money that I have been investing in your products as well, you’ll have a shop up and running in no time. Just accept it boys.” I tell them with a wide grin.

“Harry,” says George weakly, weighing the money bag in his hands, “there’s got to be a thousand Galleons in here.”

“Yeah,” says Harry, grinning. “Think how many Canary Creams that is.” The twins star at him.

“Just don’t tell your mum where you got it . . . although she might not be so keen for you to join the Ministry anymore, come to think of it. . . .”

“Harry,” Fred begins, but Harry pulls out his wand.

“Look,” he says flatly, “take it, or I’ll hex you. I know some good ones now. Just do me one favor, okay? Buy Ron some different dress robes and say they’re from you.”

With that Harry slips out of the compartment without a second thought. “I can’t believe him.” George says softly. I smile at the twins in front of me.

“I can. Harry sees something in you and your products. I see something as well, and you are definitely worth investing in. Now come on! Molly has to squeeze all of us to death, and then we have to get back home so that we can get some delicious food into us.” I declare starting out of the compartment. I make sure to squish Malfoy’s face.

“Jamie dear you just called our house, your home.” Fred says coming up behind me with a teasing tone to his voice. I blush, and refuse to respond to their laughter and high fives behind me.

Once we’re onto the platform it’s exactly as I expected it would go. Mrs. Weasley crushed the three of us into giant python like hugs, then we were passed on to Arthur who hugged us softer but no less vigorously. I share hugs and tears with Hermione, and Harry, watching them disappear into King’s Cross, with their muggle families. I was sad to see them go, but I knew that I was going to see them again soon.

Ariana slides up beside me as the Weasleys start gathering everyone and everything up. “Things are going to change now. The world isn’t ready for what’s coming.” She says in an oddly hard voice, that I haven’t heard her use before.

“Well that’s the thing about the world Ari. It changes whether we want it to or not. At least we’ll have each other for when it gets rough.” I tell her with a lopsided smile. Ariana gives me a slightly shocked look.

“Since when have you become the optimist Jamie Pendragon?” She asks me with a smirk of her own. I look up when I hear my name shouted from Mrs. Weasley and see the whole of their family, and Luka gathered around the exit, ready to go now. My family.

“Since the people that I’ve surrounded myself with, became that much more worth fighting for.” I tell her, looking into her eyes seriously. Ariana blushes, and I grin at her giving her hand a squeeze, before I take off running after the large group of people, that I honestly can’t see myself living without.

Come what may, I’m prepared to fight for what I care for… for what I love.

 

The End

(For now…)

 


End file.
